Price of Wine
by Writethesun
Summary: She was supposed to get married. She was supposed to live out the rest of her days with the man she had loved since she was a student at Hogwarts. Who knew a perfectly innocent game of wizards poker would spin Hermione Weasley's life out of control? When no one is as they seem, who can she trust?
1. The Illegalities of Goblin Wine

_Hello my lovely readers,_

_I am so happy to share this plot bunny with you! I suppose this is my take on the Dramione marriage idea so many people have done wonderful jobs illustrating in their own renditions. Thank you for taking the time to read (and hopefully review!)_

_Cheers!_

_-Writethesun_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of these characters except their actions towards one another and perhaps the thoughts in their minds._

_Warnings: This story (and indeed this chapter) contains mature themes of alcohol, violence, gambling, dubcon and dubious noncon. Please only read if you are old enough to do so. I would really feel terrible if someone were scarred for life because they didn't stop reading right now!_

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**The Illegalities of Goblin Wine**

Very little is known about Goblin made wine except that it is illegal in England, it contains hallucinogenic properties, and it is stupidly expensive. Why on earth Draco Malfoy, current ambassador to the French Minister of Magic and candidate for Minister of Magic was wagering a thousand year old bottle in the parlor of the Delacour house, was anybody's guess. But he sat, dress robes strewn around his coiffed figure, silver blond hair falling into his handsome features, with a wand and cards in his hands, at the Delacour poker table and some of the Europe's most influential figures equally engrossed around him. The bottle, and other various objects of similar worth were hovering over the table in what looked like little golden cages, suspended for the tens of men crowding around the table to drool over no doubt.

A tall man, dressed in rented-but-elegant dress robes and an orchid blossom pinned to his right breast, pushed his way through the crowd. He had noticeably red hair, and his usually jovial expression darkened upon seeing the blond wizard. A path cleared between the two, allowing for the ginger man to approach at a distance Draco found distinctly unpleasant.

"What are you doing here?" The man demanded.

"Playing cards," Draco drawled. "You?"

The man, whose name was in fact Ron Weasley, stood himself up to his full height and his blue eyes flashed with ill-held irritation. Drawing his wand slowly, he growled out, "This is _my_ wedding. I don't believe you were on the guest list."

"'Ee's 'ere at my invitation," Monsieur Delacour told him matter-a-factly. He picked up a new card and winced, putting all the cards he had on the table and drawing a snake with his wand in midair. "But per'aps I would 'ave been richer if 'ees invitation was lost in ze floo."

Draco chuckled darkly as Monsieur Delacour's contribution to the poker table was released from its golden cage and floated over Draco's relaxed form. If one looked closely, it would have been possible to notice that most of the objects floating above the table were hovering in Draco's general direction.

"I haven't been known to lose at card games, Patrick." Draco told the stout man, who stood and conjured a chair to Draco's left, perhaps to watch the master play the rest of the game.

"I want to play," Ron announced.

Draco looked up at him, surprised he was still there.

"No offence, Weasley, but I doubt you could afford the buy in," Draco told him.

Ron's lips curled. "Seeing as how you're at my wedding, I should say I don't have to have a buy-in." The tall ginger man strode around the table, oblivious or uncaring towards the people he shoved backwards and landed himself down in Monsieur Delacour's previously vacant chair. The table recognized the magic immediately and before Ron Weasley knew what was happening the table had manufactured cards for his hands and an open golden cage was in front of him, ready to be filled. "What the bloody-"

"You're an idiot," Draco told him calmly.

Ron tried to stand, but it was as though he had never given the command to his legs. He was stuck at the table and only Monsieur Delacour looked the least bit worried.

"My move?" Draco asked the table, as though one of its occupants wasn't about to hyperventilate. "And I think…" looking at Ron Weasley's failing attempts to spell himself out of the chair, "…a brandy for Mr. Weasley."

A house-elf appeared and placed a tall glass of brown liquid in front of Ron before disappearing with a crack. Draco turned to his right and addressed a silver haired man with dark eyebrows and a mustache.

"Francis, I really wasn't expecting to see you here. Aside from your friendship with Patrick," he indicated to Monsieur Delacour to his left, "who is related to the Weasley's by marriage, of course. I did not realize you knew Ron Weasley or had any desire to attend-"

"How do I get out of this bloody fucking chair!" Ron bellowed finally. Draco turned his head lazily and a smirk cracked from under his bored poker face.

"I thought you wanted to play poker, Weasley." Draco told him.

"My cards are blank and I can't get up," Ron snapped. His face was turning purple at an alarming rate.

"Well..." Draco said, making a big show of gesturing towards the golden cage which had gotten closer and closer to Ron in his attempts to stand. "Perhaps you should buy in so you can be accepted."

"I thought we agreed I didn't have to," Ron said petulantly.

"That's not how the game works, I'm afraid." Draco snapped his fingers and a glass of brandy was brought and placed on the table before him by the same small house-elf before it disappeared with another crack. No one paid it any attention. "Now go ahead and put something in that cage so we can all carry on our afternoons. We'll sit here until we're old, you know. It only ends when someone has won and you have a wedding-night to enjoy if I'm not mistaken. Despite being a mudblood, your wife certainly was built like an Italian courtesan."

Ron whipped his wand from his robes and pointed it menacingly at Draco before it was ripped out of his hands and suck to the table. Ron looked around but everyone seemed a bit bored by his antics.

"That," Draco said indicated towards the wand Ron had tried to hex him with, "is also not permissible in this game."

There was a long silence in which Draco was shuffling his cards around and other members of the table snapped their fingers and the drinks of their preferences were either brought to them or refilled by a team of house-elves. Monsieur Delacour looked a bit green at the prospect of the game going on longer than the original time he had allotted for it. Draco had not been lying. If Ron did not buy in the game would not release any of them. The only way out was to fold or win.

"What's the buy in?" Ron asked after some time.

"I'm glad you asked," Draco said, never looking up from his cards. "Four point four million galleons."

Ron, who had been taking a tentative sip of his brandy, spat it back out with such vigor that someone, most likely the dark-eyebrowed man called Francis, threw up a shield charm to repel the spittle. The resulting, rebounding mess landed back in Ron's face and made him gasp.

He looked decidedly revolting in that moment. Draco wondered idly why a witch, even one as lowly as Hermione Granger had agreed to marry him at all. He shuddered at the thought of waking up every morning to that face, or having it echoed in any way in his children.

"You're joking," Ron sputtered.

"You see that," Draco said as though Ron had not just made a complete mess of himself at his own wedding. He pointed up towards the wine, floating in the center of the golden cages like a crowned jewel. "That is thousand year old goblin wine. It's been in my family for generations and Monsieur Delacour coerced me to bring it into this little card game that you have so...graciously decided to join because I owe him a great favor. It has never before left the manor." The way Draco said gracious gave Ron and everyone else in the room the impression that gracious was the last thing he meant by that word. "It was my buy in. You'll have to bring something of equal value."

"Patr..." Ron started towards Monsieur Delaour, but stuttered once he caught the gruff expression of his brother's father-in-law. It was clear to everyone in the room that Ron Weasley was not allowed to call Monsieur Delacour, Patrick. "Uh... Monsieur Delacour, what was your buy in?"

"My chateaux in Normandy." The stout man said. "And eet eez of equal value, you can be sure."

Draco watched Ron swallow hard with no small amount of satisfaction and twirled his wand in his left hand. It was not hard to assume that Ron Weasley possessed nothing worth the single value of four point four million galleons, and indeed nothing with the cumulative value either. The sweat building up on Ron's brow threatened to tear torrents down his swollen face. Draco set down his wand and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief to ease Ron's plight, but the redhead shunned it away as if it were an insult. It had been, in fact, an insult. Draco pocketed the serviette with a rogue grin and idly went back to toying with his wand.

"I think I'll raise," Draco told the room. The occupants at the table shifted nervously. Draco was well renowned in the poker circles, and though they had all put something on the table in the hopes of winning, no one had really thought they would best Draco Malfoy who had, as legend had it, been schooled in wizards poker by his grandfather Abraxas Malfoy when he was five. Poor Ron Weasley looked as though he might faint.

"Malfoy manor." A cage appeared in front of Draco and he conjured with his wand what looked to be the deed to Malfoy Manor. The occupants of the table groaned and snakes were being drawn as cards were flipped over and people removed themselves from the table until there were none but Draco and Ron. The cage closed once the deed was inside and floated around all the other cages in the air.

Ron chuckled nervously.

"You raise me Malfoy Manor? You're ancestral home?" Ron asked. Incredulity laced his every syllable. "And you expect me to have something that can match that?"

"You haven't even bought into the game," Draco reminded him.

"I haven't got anything," Ron admitted.

Draco sighed, "Come now, Weasel-king. You can't have _nothing_ to your name."

"I have..." Ron wiped the sweat from his brow with the cuff of his sleeve. "I have a house my parents gave Hermione and me for our wedding."

"Can't be worth much," Draco commented. "If the Weasley's bought it."

There was a moment of riotous laughter in the room, as though there was nothing more funny in the world than the thought of a Weasley buying a house worth more than a few knuts, and for a second, Draco thought Ron Weasley was going to try and hex him again. But Ron surprised him by swallowing what could only be described as pride and boring his blue eyes into the steal grey of the Malfoy heir.

"It's not worth much," Ron echoed. "But it is something. I have an owl as well."

"I don't need your owl," Draco drawled. "And I doubt it alone could qualify as a buy-in." It was met with another round of laughter from the room.

"There must be a way to let me up from the table," Ron's tone had taken on an almost pleading quality. "Please, I just got married-"

"You have a wife," Draco said. His voice had turned sinister, and something about it had driven the hairs on Ron's arms to stand upright as though he were woodland prey.

Ron looked at Draco as though he were slow. "Yes," Ron said slowly. "You attended my wedding."

Draco held up a finger. "I didn't, actually. I passed through the reception on my way here with just enough time to see how wonderful your mudblood bride looked in her wedding robes. They must have cost her more than your yearly salary. It's amazing your masculinity was intact enough to pronounce your vows." More laughter from the room. "The wedding, I missed. But you brought up an interesting point. Your greatest asset, my dear Weasel, is perhaps your dear wife."

The room fell silent. As though no one dared draw breath lest that change the events that were beginning to unfold.

"How do you mean?" Ron asked.

"It's simple," Draco explained as though he were entreating a child. "I have placed incredible wealth in front of you, and you are unable to leave this table until we have played a little game. You, on the other hand, have nothing to offer but a cottage, an owl -who's age I dare not even inquire about- and...your wife."

Realization dawned on Ron. "She's not my property."

Draco rolled his eyes.

"Of course she is," he reasoned. "Did you not perform a standard wizarding marriage?"

Ron seemed at a loss for words.

"Eet was," Monsieur Delacour told Draco from his right. "Amelia Bones married zhem. Eet was far more traditional zhen I would 'ave thought coming from a mudblood."

At this, it looked as though Ron had meant to stand up but couldn't again. Draco turned from Monsieur Delacour and shot Ron an exasperated look. Ron stopped his struggles, or it seemed that way, as his face had turned less purple and more flesh colored.

"What sum would you give your wife then?" Draco said softly. "Would you value her at four point four million galleons? The price of my goblin wine? Or perhaps an insurmountable sum of my manor and all of the treasures inside? Is she truly priceless?"

"I'm not putting Hermione in that little cage like livestock," Ron told him stubbornly.

The whole room seemed to laugh at him again and Ron had the decency to blush a bit.

"You wouldn't have to put the newest Mrs. Weasel in there," Draco assured, though his eyes danced as though the idea were humorous beyond words. "Only your marriage contract." He sighed dramatically and tossed his silver-blond hair out of his eyes. "If you win you'll be drinking goblin wine in a Manor for your honeymoon."

"We were supposed to go to France," Ron objected weakly. But his wand was already drawn.

"I don't have to remind you that you're already in France," Draco told him. He then turned, alarmed, to Monsieur Delacour. "My good man, Patrick," Draco exclaimed. "You weren't going to host their honeymoon were you?"

Monsieur Delacour looked a bit shaken up. "I 'ad offered my ancestral 'ome to ze brother of my daughter's 'usband." His stout face grew and bit heated and he felt the need to add, "Out of charity of course."

"Of course," Draco echoed distractedly. His attention was already back to Ron. He had grown infinitely impatient. Didn't Weasley realize that they were both unable to leave the poker table until Weasley made his move? They could be there for years. Literally. "I'm not keen on the idea of living out my life in this parlor. As much as Patrick would love to host me, I'm sure."

There was a fair amount of mumbling from Monsieur Delacour and the other occupants in the room. The same elf that had delivered Ron's brandy earlier came to refill the glass he hadn't realized he had emptied. And Draco remained motionless, as though he were poised to enter a battlefield. Ron raised his wand further than before and conjured within the golden cage in front of him, his marriage license to Hermione Jean Granger. The cage closed, having been sated, and joined the others dancing above the table. Draco smiled.

"Your turn I believe," he said to the sweating ginger across from him.

To say that Ron's hands were shaking badly would have been akin to saying the final battle at Hogwarts in 1997 was tragic, a true enough statement, but it somehow fails to capture the gravity of the event. Ron's hands shook with such force that the air around him seemed to vibrate, and every now and then sparks would shoot out at observers who neared too close. Draco had had to recalibrate the table twice because twice, Ron had managed to burst his entire hand into flames.

They sat there, for longer than Draco would have liked. He would never admit it but his left leg was cramping as if often did since the war after he sat for more than an hour and he was bored of looking at Ron's face which reminded him strikingly of constipation. Glancing at his watch, Draco realized that they had been sitting in silence well into the reception, and it wouldn't be long before guests began leaving, if they hadn't already or were staying overnight at the Delacours.

The room itself had cleared substantially, and the elegant seventeenth century style of architecture was visible where the curious faces had been only a half-hour before. Men had wandered off to find their wives and children, their dates, or more to eat. Soon it was only Draco, Ron, and Monsieur Delacour in the room, although the older stout man was by the door waving off the beckoning of the dark eyebrowed man called Francis to have thirds of the catering.

In the silence, Draco pondered what it really meant to have coerced Ron into wagering his wife of a few hours. His father would, no doubt be livid. And there was Astoria Greengrass to think of, his fiancé since the time he was three years old. She was a bit young still, and for all he knew was still dating Theo Nott, a relationship he had approved of as long as it never interfered with Astoria and his impending marriage. But he didn't really like Astoria. She had 'childbearing hips' as his mother had informed him when she was still alive, and a linage 'almost as pure' as his own, his father had told him only the day before. But she wasn't ideal for his wife. Really, Draco couldn't care less who he married. In the end, he thought, Hermione Granger would be, if anything, more interesting than Astoria (who, if he really thought about it was his second cousin.) If he won his hand, which Draco was sure he was going to do against the sweaty mess that was Ron Weasley, he would have to marry the mudblood, which it seemed suited him just fine. In fact, it might help him in the polls. Merlin knows he needed the support from the muggleborn population and the bloodtraitors that thought Arthur Weasley was their man. That Weasley couldn't organize wizarding society if he was given a manual. And Draco had to win because Draco always won. So it was inevitable really when Ron put his cards down, looked Draco in the eye and said; "It isn't fair."

"Life is seldom fair," Draco responded, his smirk not really hitting his eyes.

"There must be something I can do," argued Ron. "I love her."

It was then that the parlor doors burst open.

Hermione Weasley floated in, a dizzy-happy look on her face Draco had never seen on her before, and her white wedding-robes seemed to ripple in an invisible wind. She wore her usually messy hair in long chestnut ringlets down her back and framing her face, and a goblin tiara on her head. Happiness suited her, Draco decided. She bore the luminosity of someone who had known perfect joy, and it only dampened as she approached and took in the sight of her bridegroom and his table companion.

"There you are," she said in a soft voice and leaned over to kiss Ron softly on the mouth. The smile had fallen from her face completely as he trembled before her. "I've been looking for you for hours. What's wrong?" Ron whimpered pathetically and Hermione turned her gaze to Draco. "What did you do to him?"

Draco shrugged. "I-"

"Who even invited you?" Hermione pushed on, her ire was rising and her cheeks were flushed from irritation. Draco decided it was a good look on her as well.

"Patrick and I have been friends for a few years," Draco told her smoothly. He lounged further into his chair and Hermione bristled at his relaxed demeanor. "He invited me for a poker game to... continue the festivities."

"You should have declined," Hermione told him.

"I should have," Draco agreed, surprising her and himself.

"Ron," said Hermione sharply. "Let's go. There's still some food left, and-"

"He can't get up." Draco supplied before Ron made more of a fool out of himself. He was clutching onto Hermione's hands with his own like a needy child and her looks between the two men at the table were alternation between concerned and furious. "He decided to enter a game of poker. He can't get up until we finish the game."

Hermione's mouth pursed.

"And I suppose neither can you," she said finally. Draco shook his head. "And who's won this game of poker?"

"I have," said Draco.

"Why haven't either of you gotten up?" Hermione asked. Ron was crying openly now. Draco had never seen anyone cry like that. When his mother died, Draco had been told he was allowed thirteen silent tears, three for the funeral and ten for the rest of his life. He had already used five, sparingly, and in moments of complete solitude. Ron seemed to make crying a sport.

"He-"

But Draco was cut off by Ron's loud cry. "Please! Please I l-love her! You...c-can't..."

"You can't love her that much," Draco reasoned, eyes flickering between the bride and bridegroom of the wedding he had essentially crashed. "You wagered her for a bottle of wine."

This got Hermione's attention.

"Wagered?" Her voice was dangerously soft; it reminded Draco of Umbridge in his fifth year at Hogwarts. He really hadn't thought about that woman in years.

"Hm," Draco hummed affirming Hermione's question. "He put you up as collateral against my thousand year old goblin wine."

"What!" She exclaimed, wrenching her hands from her husband's and backing up. "What do you mean collateral?"

"S'not like th-that!" insisted Ron. But, as Draco thought on it, it actually was like that. "Hermione, this is just...please just..."

Draco shot his wand towards Ron's upturned cards and the hands of those that had left the table before and threw his own into the mix. They all burned save his own, and the little gold cages suspended in the air began to descend in his direction. The release the table had on Draco and Ron was instantaneous and they stood and collapsed respectively.

Draco stretched like a cat, using his wand to shrink his winnings and gather them in the forward pocket of his cloak. One however, he opened and released a document. "Monsieur Delacour," he called towards the far side of the room where everyone had quite forgotten the stout man was standing. "Merci pour le jeux. Mais, je n'ai pas besoin d'une autre maison en France." He handed the older man the deed to his chateaux in Normandy, and turned back towards the odd couple to his left. He had all he wanted out of the game and did not require the castle that would only cost him taxes in the end. Monsieur Delacour thanked him for his generosity and made his way without pause to the door of the parlor and left.

"Ron?" Hermione's soft voice rose over the echoes of her husband's sobs. "Ron, please...tell me what's going on?" She was crouched over him, the light weight of her white robes sweeping around them both like a pool of slippery cloud. Her deep brown eyes were alight with worry and apprehension. Her hands were sweeping patterns across Ron's back and through his bright red hair.

"Shall I call Harry?" She asked him. Ron sobbed louder. Hermione bit her lip and crooned to him. She told him it would be alright, but the goosbumps on her arms, exposed by the cut of her robes, gave away her own doubt.

"Granger," Draco tried to speak to her.

"It's Weasley," she told him vehemently. She reminded him very much of a lion who felt the need to save her young.

"Hermione," he implored again, softer, his voice like the wind. "It's time." Her expression changed. She looked disoriented, and for a second Draco realized it was the first time in all the years they had known each other that he had spoken aloud her first name. "Hermione, come with me and I'll explain everything."

His voice was so earnest she couldn't help but stand. Ron gripped the hem of her dress in desperation, and she looked torn between knowing the truth, and comforting the man to whom she had just pledged the rest of her life. She conjured a silver otter, her patronous, Draco realized, and spoke into it about Ron, needing help, and Harry Potter. Draco extended his hand towards her. She seemed, if anything, more surprised that perhaps he would even want to touch her after everything he had said to her in school.

Her patronous left the room through the wall and she looked into Draco's silver eyes with a furrowed brow and a step away from her husband. Her eyes darted between his outstretched hand and her own, which was lifting seemingly of its own accord. One more step away from Ron, and he curled into a fetal position, no longer touching her. That was all it took. Draco lunged forwards, seized Hermione away from the blubbering mess of her soon-to-be-former husband and apparated to Malfoy Manor. He had a lot of preparing to do.

To be honest, Draco had forgotten how exhausting sidelong apparition was. Especially international sidelong apparition and he regretted it as soon as he landed. The second they reached the grounds of Malfoy Manor, Draco and Hermione collapsed onto the marble floors. He had taken them to the ballroom, perhaps a mistake considering what had transpired years before (and the last time Hermione had been to the manor), as it was the furthest apparation point from his father's wing. And a confrontation between Hermione Weasley soon to be Malfoy and Lucious Malfoy was something Draco was not willing to deal with.

Currently, he was in no position to deal with anything at all. He was sprawled, haphazardly, across the floor while attempting to catch his breath. Hermione seemed to be recovering more quickly, and he kept a firm hand on his wand.

She had, in fact, not kept her wand on her for the wedding so he had little to worry about. Hermione could not fathom a place to put her magical instrument during the ceremony, and left it in the dressing room much to her scandalized bridesmaids. She was on her stomach, now, her forearms hoisting the front part of her body off the marble and her face turned in a mess of riotous curls towards Draco. He grasped his wand tighter, as though he would need to defend himself at any moment. He regretted falling on his back. He felt winded and weak, and the back of his head was throbbing. He would have to have a house-elf give him something before he developed a knot.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have you hauled to Azkaban for kidnapping," said Hermione after a while.

Draco cocked his head and sat up slowly. This wasn't going to be an easy conversation.

"It's not kidnapping when you don't have a choice," Draco told her.

Hermione sat up as well and shot him an incredulous look. "No, Malfoy. When someone isn't given a choice in the matter, that pretty much exemplifies the term kidnapping."

Draco sighed. "No. I meant to say that you would have had to come with me whether you wanted to or not," he clarified. "So I didn't kidnap you."

Hermione grew flustered. "You're delusional. I'd hate to think what your definition of kidnapping is, Malfoy, because this is going to be reported as soon as I leave. In fact, you'll be lucky if you aren't automatically disqualified from the race. Good luck trying to be Minister of Magic now, Malfoy. You've just kidnapped one of the three most famous war heros from her own wedding. Which you were not invited to I might add." She struggled a moment, as if realizing all of this was in fact incumbent upon her exiting Malfoy Manor. "I can leave, can't I?"

Draco pursed his lips. And she was supposed to be the brightest witch in the century. That really didn't bode well for witches in general, did it? "No," he said. "Not until tomorrow."

Hermione sighed, trying a different tactic. "Why am I here, then?"

Draco snapped his fingers and Tuffle appeared, his personal house-elf. It was a strange little creature that usually did what it wanted, or more precisely what it thought was best for Draco, and not what Draco ordered it to. However, Draco couldn't bring himself to give it clothes or mount its head on the wall as was the practice of his forefathers. The little thing had soulful brown eyes and wore a pinstriped loincloth and a strange white-starched collar that Draco had never questioned. It bowed low on knobby legs and swept its hand in front of itself in a manner of subservience.

"Master is calling for Tuffle," it spoke slowly, eyeing Hermione with discretion.

"Yes," Draco said, hauling himself to his feet. "Ms. Granger and I-"

"Mrs. Weasley," corrected Hermione hotly.

"Hermione," Draco opted to say, "and I will be needing you to bring us tea and a bottle of firewhiskey. And I'll be needing the contract Mother had saved for Astoria. Go ahead and bring the whole chest. Something for my head as well. I hit it. And Merlin knows if you could bring something for Ms. G..." Hermione opened her mouth to protest but Draco corrected himself. "Something for Hermione from my mother's wardrobe, that would be appreciated. Something simple that my father wouldn't notice missing in the morning."

The house elf nodded and then disappeared with a pop.

"I'm not wearing anything of your mother's," Hermione said at once.

Draco nodded, "You don't have to. I just thought you might be more comfortable."

Hermione scoffed, "So you care what I think now?"

Draco walked over to her. She had turned over so that she was sitting on the marble. Her arms were clutched around herself and she was making herself as small as she possibly could in the large ballroom. He extended a hand to help her up but she pushed it away, batting it, telling him with her furrowed brow and tight jaw that she had made the mistake of trusting his extended hand once to many times that night already.

Finally she said, "Are we staying here to have tea?"

"You're cooperating now?"

She hugged herself tighter.

"I don't really have a choice right now," she reasoned, but leveled him with a menacing glare. "Tomorrow, if you're true to your word and you let me go, you'll know exactly what you've done pissing me off. I'm not someone to be trifled with. You'll be lucky if you can campaign to cockroaches as the minister of Azkaban prisoners. Or lost souls. You should get the dementors kiss for all I care."

"Duly noted," Draco told her. He wasn't worried about his campaign for Minister of Magic. "But this room has too many memories for the both of us, I think. Let us retire to my private sitting room. It's warmer at any rate."

He was surprised when she followed him out of the ballroom and up the stairs towards his wing. He preferred his personal sitting room to the large and rather ostentatious one of the ground floor. It was smaller at any rate, and decorated to his own personal taste and not the triumphs of his ancestors. He brought friends there, and not the formal retinue that his work brought through his house on a daily basis. In fact, this would be the first time he had brought someone he did not know very well.

Hermione was shivering. The corridors of Malfoy Manor were cold from disuse and she could barely remember which way she had come. Torches along the walls lit themselves when they sensed the presence of the two walking through the halls and a few portraits of Malfoys past woke themselves from their slumber and gave a sleepy hello before drifting back off to sleep. Hermione and Draco both realized then how late it really was. The large windows that dominated the right wall of the corridor in which they walked were dark and nothing could be seen outside. Hermione's jaw was clenched, and it was clear to see that she hated being in a situation that was out of her control. In school, and in her job in Magical Law Enforcement, she had relished control. Draco would have to punish Tuffle for keeping her cold. He turned to her and conjured a cloak to ward off her obvious chill, but she declined. He suspected he would have to get used to her refusal of his offerings, she was like a wounded animal.

They arrived and he ushered her inside the French-style double doors with his large had cupped in the small of her back. She recoiled from him as though he were diseased and he dropped his hand. Perhaps the gesture had been a bit too familiar with what she was comfortable with. The room was warm from a fire blazing to the right and two elegant cream couches illuminated by a crystal drop chandelier. A center coffee table held two cups of steaming tea, a pot, and a bottle of firewhiskey. The chest Draco had asked for was perched at the side of the coffee table, silver with ruby's encrusted along vertical lines, it caught Hermione's eye immediately, but Draco paid it no attention, not yet. A dark green rug with a forest embroidered into its center and different animals stitched into the trim lined the floor. Hermione moved towards the fire, instinctively. She stood with her back to it and forced the chills out of herself. Her body craved the warmth.

Draco fell into one of the couches, flicked his wand towards the beverages and had the firewhiskey pour a healthy amount of itself into one of the teacups. He then levitated the teacup to his outstretched hand and took a long swallow.

"Want some?" He asked Hermione. He gave his wand a twist, and the firewhiskey hovered over the other teacup.

In spite of herself she nodded and another generous portion left the bottle. Draco didn't bother floating her teacup her way, so Hermione was forced to move away from the flames and sit on the opposite cream couch in order to sip her drink. She did so skeptically.

"It's not poisoned," Draco told her.

"Would you tell me if it was?" asked Hermione.

"We're not here to talk about poison," said Draco. The firelight danced in his silver irises and made him look all the more dangerous. Hermione shifted. "Ron Weasley entered a card game this evening that he wasn't invited to, and I advised him not to get involved. He has about as much common sense as a snail-"

"I can't hex you now, Malfoy, but if you continue talking about my husband that way I'll make sure to make your life even more miserable-" Hermione growled out, but Draco held up a finger and she silenced.

"You owe him nothing," Draco told her. "He sat down, even though he was told not to. And he couldn't afford the buy-in."

"Goblin wine is illegal," Hermione informed him.

"In England," nodded Draco. "Yes. But we were in France."

"I suppose you have a stash here somewhere," Hermione said threateningly. "I could tell the ministry-"

Draco barked out a vicious laugh.

"You could tell the ministry to search my home? And what hope would they have of finding one little bottle, Granger?" Draco's eyes taunted her. He leaned forwards on the couch and took a long swallow of his tea. "Never mind the legalities. Weasley sat down at a table that required the sum of almost four and a half million galleons to get up from. He didn't have the money, or any acquisitions that would aid his cause. He couldn't forfeit, because he hadn't put anything down. He, and everyone else at the table were stuck there until he offered something up of equal value or grreater."

Hermione's eyes were alight.

"Then why wasn't anyone else there?" she demanded.

"Because I raised," he told her. "I put the deed to Malfoy Manor on the table. Everyone knew I was going to win. They folded immediately," he gloated. "Of course. Only your husband was left and the price had increased exponentially. He had nothing to put up. Except perhaps his life...and you."

"Me?"

"You're worth to him was completely subjective," Draco explained. "He could have valued you at any sum, and so you were a valid-"

"I'm not a chip someone can bargain away, Malfoy." Hermione said heatedly. She drank deeply from the cup in her hands, tipped it back and shuddered as the warm whiskey-tea mélange burned down her throat. Draco noticed her cheeks flushed as the alcohol metabolized in her system. He was becoming more content with his decision by the minute. "You say you won the game," Hermione continued.

"I did win the game."

"So, what?" Hermione concluded. "You've won me? Unfortunately I wasn't Ron's to give away. This is some sort of misunderstanding, Malfoy. He's my husband, he'll be sleeping on the couch for several years after this, but he's not...that is to say I don't belong to him."

Draco felt this was an excellent time to refill Hermione's tea cup. He did so without the pretence of tea, and let the firewhiskey rest, emptying itself into the teacup until it spilling over the sides a bit. Hermione gasped a bit as the warm brown liquid spilled onto her white wedding robes but said nothing.

"You had a traditional wizard's wedding," Draco told her. "Patrick told me," he supplied when she furrowed her brow in askance. "I doubt you would have allowed a blood ritual, you seem to thrive on legalities and they are," he tried to find a kind way to describe them, "barely legal."

"We didn't use blood magic," she confirmed. "And I think unquestionably illegal is a more appropriate term for that kind of marriage ceremony. The minister of magic was at my wedding, he might have had kittens if he had taken out cursed daggers."

"Anyway," Draco said quickly moving off the subject. "You had a traditional wedding. That makes you, legally, Weasley's property."

Hermione looked scandalized. "Don't look so shocked, Granger. You work in Magical law, I'm sure you of all people know how long it's taken the ministry to update some of their older rituals and ceremonies. Centuries. Does it really surprise you that wives belong to their husbands?"

She took a deep drink of her second cup of whiskey and set it on the table. Draco sat back against the couch again, and cast a quick glance towards his watch on his left wrist. It was almost midnight and he found himself more tired than usual. Hermione stood up and walked towards the fire. She was shivering but wasn't sure if it was from the cold or a deep seated dread that had taken root in the pit of her stomach. Draco watched her pace in front of the flames. They illuminated the figure of her dress and made the fabric look as though it were rippling like waves of water dancing under a setting sun. He was entranced.

"You'll let me go tomorrow," Hermione insisted. "You said you would."

"You'll be free to come and go as you please tomorrow," Draco assured her. But his eyes were fixed on her pacing form like that of a predator. Her arms crossed at his lingering gaze. They held silence for some time, the only sounds coming from the occasional sips of whiskey and the crackling fire.

"Say you're right," said Hermione after some time. "Say Ron did lose me in a game of cards. What...does...do you own me?"

"In a manner of speaking," Draco said cryptically. He relished her every shiver. He drew out his words and toyed with his wand idly. "I own you as much as your husband did."

"I don't understand," Hermione said.

Draco sighed. She really was supposed to be intelligent.

"Think, Granger. In which ways did Ronald Weasley own you?" He asked her. "What did he own of yours that he could possibly lose or give away in some capacity."

And then Hermione's pacing stilled. She turned to Draco with a look of horror smattered across her delicate features, she recoiled from his gaze, and the smirk that was developing on his curling lips. She hugged herself further, cocooning herself in her own arms as if it would change the predicament she found herself in. Tears, tears that Draco did not understand, fell from her haunted eyes and down the cheeks that still held the glow of what had been the happiest day of her life and the remnant pink of whiskey. The dip in her neck hollowed as she sucked in a breath that did not satisfy her lung's desperate need for air. She collapsed on the green rug in front of the fire, her white wedding robes spilling around her in a vision of a fallen angel.

"No," she gasped.

Draco stood with elegance and walked over to her before dropping to one knee beside her. She had fallen between the fire and the silver chest which Draco had asked Tuffle for. With a jab of his wand it opened and revealed four objects, two matching white-gold rings, and two daggers of the same mettle. Lethal by the looks of them. Draco picked one up from the chest and placed it in Hermione's hand. She was turned away, and sobbing with such force he worried she would cut herself. But as soon as he pried her fingers around the handle, she sat up, looked at him, and what she was now holding in her hand and her mouth opened.

"What are you doing?" She cried.

She dropped the dagger almost immediately but Draco had carefully pricked his finger with it while it was still in her hands. He picked up the matching one and nicked her hand that had dropped its twin. She pulled her hand to her chest and scooted backwards, getting tangled in her robes.

"How dare you!" She yelled, wiping angrily at the tears on her cheeks. "I do not give you permission to use my blood."

"It's not a matter of permission," Draco told her as he picked up the daggers and placed their reddened tips on the two rings in the chest. There was a humming sound so faint it sounded almost like the whine of a mosquito. Hermione flinched and Draco grimaced. But it ended after a few second and Draco picked up the rings. "In a sense we were already married." Holding the rings, he walked forward on his knees towards her and she backed away until she was firm against the wall adjacent to the fire and behind one of the couches. "We had been married ever since Weasley put his cards on the table. They burned because he lost. When your marriage contract touched my skin, we were married. This is just a technicality that has been in my family for years."

She reached out and slapped him hard across the face. His head turned with the impact. Before he could react her knee caught him in the thigh and her forearm clipped his ear, spinning him to the side. Hermione had a wild look in her eyes and Draco padded his wand, waiting for the right moment to stop her. She tried to kick her foot out and catch him in the gut but he immobilized her. Draco walked, on his knees, further towards her body. He walked in-between her legs, outstretched in her attempts to keep him away, but incapable of moving. He brought her left hand to his body slowly, it was somewhat rigid from the spell, and he took off the pair of rings she had on tying herself to Ron Weasley and slipped on his familial wedding ring in its place. It glowed as it slid down her finger and locked into place.

"Who am I to interfere with tradition," Draco whispered into her hair. He covered his own left hand with hers as he slid his ring on.

He grunted in pain as he felt his whole hand heat up from the ring's presence. He disengaged the immobilization spell and her reaction was instantaneous. She lifted her head rapidly, sending his, which had been almost resting atop her own, careening upward. Draco saw stars, and pain shot through his jaw. She scrambled, propelling herself away from him using the wall he had cornered her against. She stood and raced to the other side of the room, the one closest to the door where they had come from. Draco was sure for a moment she was going to run right out. He was too tired for a chase around the manor.

"Don't touch me!" Hermione shouted. She tried in vain to pull the ring off, but they both knew it was futile. "This is illegal! You can't just do this to someone!"

"We were already married," Draco told her, getting up from the ground. "I just gave you the ring."

"Blood magic is illegal in England!" Hermione bellowed. She was livid, crying, and tugging at her hand. Draco cast a localized silencing charm around the room incase his father was taking a midnight stroll through the estate. "I hope you get the kiss for this! I want to be there when the demeanors rip out your fucking soul!"

"I was right a minute ago," Draco told her softly. She could almost not hear him over her own cries. "When I said blood magic was barely legal. You were also right when you said it was illegal. See...it's only legal if you have a permit. Say, if you're family has been performing a certain marriage ceremony since the eleventh century. Certain exceptions have always been made for the better people of this world, Hermione. You should get used to that."

She went for the door to the corridor, and Draco sent a locking charm on it from across the room. She pounded on it, and he was thankful he had silenced the room a moment earlier.

"Let me out!" she screamed.

"No," he said plainly. He crossed the room back to where he'd left his drink and poured himself a bit more. "I don't think I will."

"Let me out!"

"Why, so that I can chase you around the manor?" He drawled. "So that you can wake up all the house-elves? I thought you were all for their rights and liberties. What about their rights to have a good night's sleep before they work incredibly hard to keep this place immaculate tomorrow?"

She turned around, facing him with red rimmed eyes.

"Don't you have a pureblood whore to marry and produce little pureblood children with?" She cried. "I've known you as long as I've known I was a witch and you...you never...this isn't like you! I'm a mudblood! I'm dirty to you! You don't want...please, Malfoy. There has to be a way..." She paused and hiccupped loudly. "I love Ron."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "I was engaged. Well," he paused. "In a manner of speaking. Astoria Greengrass and I were betrothed at a very young age. Daphne, she was in our year at Hogwarts...it's her younger sister. It was expected sometime before we were thirty that we would marry."

"So you..." Hermione edged closer to the back of the couch opposite where Draco was sitting. "You could annul this...and I can remarry Ron and you can marry Astoria-"

"No." Draco said simply.

"No?" Hermione had moved to the back of the couch and her hands were white gripping the top. She seemed frozen and somewhat broken.

Her mind was whirling and she shook.

"It doesn't matter now," informed Draco. He, against everything his mother had taught him, put his feet up on the coffee table and stretched. "What's done is done. Another drink?"

"There has to be a way out," Hermione said. "I'll research something."

"Not everything can be found in a book."

"There's always a way," said Hermione defiantly. She released the back of the couch and walked towards the door, sniffling but keeping her emotions contained. "Let me out so I can go to your library. You'll be happier with Astoria-"

"We've been over this," Draco told her. "There's no way-"

"If I have to kill you in your sleep, Malfoy, I'm getting out of this marriage!"

The outburst came from her like a force. She clapped her hands in front of her mouth and watched as Draco's features morphed from an almost lazy indifference to something she hadn't seen since the war. She swallowed hard as Draco's eyes darkened. He slid forward on the couch and brought his legs underneath him in a fluid motion. Standing quickly, he was in front of her before she knew what was happening.

She instinctively pulled back her fist and clocked him in the cheek. His face, again, turned with the impact, but he kept advancing on her until both of his hands grasped her forearms. The pressure was painful. Draco was a fair amount taller than her. She wondered why she hadn't noticed before. He dominated her figure and looked down into her eyes will ill-disguised menace.

"That will be the last time you hit me," he told her coldly. She shivered. "The next time you act like a muggle, I'll show you how Malfoy's treat mud. Act like a witch and I'll treat you like one." Hermione cowered and Draco continued, "As for killing me in my sleep, you can't. It's part of the blood pact, you see." His tongue darted out and tasted the blood that had collected in the corner of his mouth. He had had no idea she hit so hard. "You can do nothing physical or magical to hasten my death. You can't hire someone to kill me. You cannot coerce one of the house elves to poison my food. You can't put marbles on the staircase incase I fall down." He lowered his mouth down to her own until they were sharing breath and whispered, "Sorry love...if that disappoints you."

"I hate you," she whispered into his lips. He kept hovering them millimeters above her own.

"The feeling is mutual," He insisted, but made no attempts to move away.

She threw back her head to headbut him, and knock him loose of her arms, but he matched her movement by forcing a brutal kiss onto her retreating lips. It was punishing, harsh. His left hand let go of her forearm, glided up her arm, and wrapped itself around her throat, choking her. She gasped, eyes widening at the sensation, and he used that moment to deepen the kiss and overwhelm her. She backed up and he moved with her until she was pinned against the wall next to the fireplace. It was too warm, she felt as though she couldn't breathe.

She gasped again and Draco invaded her mouth with his tongue. Their teeth clashed, hurting them both. She tried to bite his tongue and he tightened his grip on her throat. Her free hand pushed against his chest, but did little to deter him. His hand left her throat and he moved away just enough for him to see the fear in her eyes. He released his wand from the holder he kept on his hip, dragon-hide and spelled to accept only his hand to open it. The end was under Hermione's chin before her next shuddering breath.

"You're going to kill me now, Malfoy?" Hermione breathed. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears and her mouth was swollen from his angry kisses. She tilted her head away from where he held her at wand-point. "Can't have yourself a mudblood wife after all?"

Draco shook his head.

"I can't kill you anymore that you could me," Draco told her. He twisted his wand at her neck and she winced. "But I'm afraid, darling..." He lifted the hand that wasn't holding his wand and pushed a strand of hair back that had fallen over her face. She leaned away from his touch, repulsed. "…that the wedding is far from over."

"You sealed it with a kiss," Hermione laughed grimly. "You have me at the tip of your wand. Do you even know what you want, Malfoy?"

He didn't answer her, instead took a step forward, pressing her impossibly further against the wall. Hermione stiffened. The wand against her throat was painful and he was holding it with such intensity she thought she felt the beginnings of sparks on her neck. They locked gazes and the hand Draco used to brush her hair out of her face came down and cupped her cheek.

"Are you going to behave or would you prefer Imperio?" He asked her. His voice was soft, lilting and smooth. He leaned in and inhaled deeply in her hair. "I hadn't wanted to marry you. I'm not usually this impulsive or...stupid I might even call it. But...I will enjoy this."

"What-"

"_Imperio_" He whispered. The affect was instantaneous. Hermione's eyes glazed over and her arms went limp at her sides. The inside of her mind turned into something warm, soft, and indescribably peaceful. She felt like she was floating on a cloud with not even the worries of her own conscious. Draco watched as serenity washed over her face. She relaxed against him. He took away the tip of his wand and sheathed it in its holder. "Close your eyes," he told her softly. She did so with no hesitation.

He stepped away from her and bade her to follow. She did so, a dreamy expression on her face. Draco glanced at the ring on her finger. It had been his mother's when she was alive. Draco's heart clenched as he thought about his mother's accident. It had been no one's fault, he was assured. Narcissa Malfoy had fallen asleep in the bathwater and died before she even knew she was drowning. Painless, they had told him when her body had been examined at St. Mungo's. She had simply slipped away from the world. Peacefully, from the flowers, essence, and different calming potions that she had sprinkled into her bathwater. They were of her own recipe. Narcissa Malfoy had been somewhat of a potions genius.

"You know why I had to this," Draco told Hermione. She stared up at him with a contented dazed expression in her warm brown eyes and he continued, "It's part of the blood magic." He brushed his thumb over her swollen bottom lip. "Respond to me," he bade her softly.

He leaned in to kiss her again, and this time she kissed him back. She was softer than he expected when willing. Draco took his wand back out and unlocked the door to the corridor. He turned and opened the door, letting in the cool air from the hallway. Hermione followed him mindlessly. He led her to his own room, not that of his childhood, but the one where he had taken residence since the death of his mother.

The furthest room from his parent's wing, the room was on one of the manor's corners facing the gardens. In the light, it had breathtaking views of the landscaping his mother had meticulously worked on since before Draco was born and his grandmother before her. In the dark, without being able to see what was outside, the giant windows were a looming presence.

Draco flicked his wand and large bay curtains swung to cover them. He held out his hand and asked Hermione to take it. She allowed herself to be led into the room, her shoes clicking on the wooden floor. A fire had already been started in the large, marble, fireplace opposite the bed. A simple dressing gown, one that had been his mother's, was bent over the back of the green loveseat in front of the fire. Draco smiled.

Tuffle had done well.

"Put that on," he commanded indicating towards the dressing gown. "You no longer require your wedding robes."

The sooner she was out of her intended wedding dress to Ron Weasley, the sooner Draco could forget the imbecile even existed. He watched as she reached around herself and undid the laces that held the bodice of the cream wedding robes together. Her face was still tearstained. He would have to fix that. Impatient, he banished the dress off of her body. She shivered under the spell, her body reacting to the cold of the room. She reached for the dressing gown to cover herself as he had commanded.

"Don't move," he said. His voice was almost reverent. His eyes, mesmerized by her naked form. "Drop it."

The material slid onto the floor.

She was wrapped in firelight, it seemed. The warm glow of the orange realized the highlights in her disheveled hair, and rounded her thin frame. His eyes explored her, sweeping the curve of her neck, the swell of each breast, and feasting in the way the firelight curled around the flare of her hips and each thigh and the brown curls at her center. He found himself walking towards her before he realized he had the will to move. The backs of his hands came up and traced the motionless lengths of her arms. Her skin was soft and delicate. She smelled faintly of his touch from their encounter in his personal sitting room.

Draco was taken by surprise by the force of his arousal. His need of her was instantaneous and powerful. He stripped his own robes with practiced hands, never taking his eyes from the sight of her body.

His lips descended as he dipped his head down to caress her shoulder. His mouth devoured her, placing open mouthed kisses down the path of her collar bone to the point between her breasts. He brought his hands up to cup the contours of her jaw line and placed a slow, sensuous, kiss on her silent lips. Her eyes were wide and almost unseeing. He reached a hand up and closed them. He pressed his body flush with hers and let his hand trickle down her front until it cupped her breast. He breathed into her. She stood.

"Respond to me," he growled out, unnerved by her stillness. He squeezed her breast harder, punishing her for her lack of response, "You know what I want."

In an instant her lips sought his and he reveled in her taste. Her stance widened, and the part in her legs allowed him to edge between them. He picked her up, resting her thighs on either side of his narrow hips as her legs wrapped around him for support. This allowed him to greater leverage. He ground into her center, making her gasp. He smirked, walking them over to his bed and depositing her onto its cream colored comforter.

He didn't ask when he removed the last piece of clothing separating them. He didn't ask when he covered her with his person. Or when he positioned himself over her most intimate body part and surged forwards. Draco Malfoy took what he wanted.

They both gasped.

"Fuck..." Draco breathed.

She wasn't as wet as he had hoped, but it mattered very little. He hadn't expected the pleasure to be so intense, so all consuming. He pulled back a bit and plunged forwards rolling his hips up as using a hand to coax her silken thighs to open further. His hand curled around her inner knee and he moaned as her widened position had him moving deeper within her. Her body was a flurry of movement beneath him as it struggled to accommodate his invasion. He hissed as it clenched, and ground down into her, nipping at her chin with his teeth.

"Enjoy this," he demanded before plunging into her again.

He felt a wash of her arousal coat his cock, and he slid easily in and out of her. His fingers traveled her body, finding points that caused her breathing to hasten and her inner walls to clench.

Thrust. Back. Gasp.

Draco closed his eyes. His back rippled as he sought his pleasure in her core. His pace increased. He hungered for her. His right arm came under her, arching her back and he let his mouth feast on her left breast. His tongue swirled around her nipple, causing it to pucker. He pulled it into his mouth, and only released it to give the other the same treatment.

Hermione moaned.

He was reaching a precipice faster than he wanted to, but the thought of slowing was long from his mind. His movements were growing frenzied, uncoordinated. His mouth traced her neck possessively, marking it over and over again as he claimed her carnally. He was losing control. He sat up, swinging her legs around his waist and pressing her pert breasts to his broad chest. He could feel her heartbeat. He could feel every flutter of her insides contract around him as he circled his hips and forced her to feel pleasure.

Draco bit his lip.

He could feel his orgasm coming upon him. Like butterflies starting in the tips of his toes and ripping through his body with startling speed. He arched his back into her as his hips stilled and his cock pulsed within her.

She was his.

His jaw slacked as he came with a gasp. Hermione continued to move and rock above him as he crested the largest orgasm he'd known in his life. He felt himself release into her. It seemed never ending. All-consuming. A pinnacle that irrevocably changed his life. He couldn't catch his breath.

Spent, he continued thrusting into her. Lazily. More in control. He was softer than before, but hard enough to keep pace. He rolled his hips and leaned his sweaty brow on to hers. Their hair mingled on their foreheads as they touched, their breath shared between them.

"Cum," he commanded. And then just as he felt her still and her core surge around him as the beginnings of her orgasm took hold, he whispered, "_Finite._"

Hermione's eyes flew open. Shock, horror, and then pleasure presented themselves across her flushed face. Her eyes were alight. She pulled her upper body away from him, trying to put distance between them, but her traitorous body continued to rock into his, allowing his pubic bone to stimulate her clit with each roll of his hips.

In her attempt to distance herself she fell back on her elbows and moaned despite herself as the new angle sent tremors through her. She fought his command for as long as she could, but she came despite her efforts to still her hips. She panted through her release, fisting the cream blankets behind her.

Draco smirked. And wiped his brow with his forearm, leaving his silver blond hair coated to one side of his forehead. He had never looked more menacing. He looked at her and raised an exaggerated eyebrow towards where they were connected and their mingled enjoyment pooled between them.

"Did you enjoy yourself, darling?" he asked.

"Fuck you," Hermione panted.

"Mmm," he hummed. "Give me a couple minutes."

"I've always thought you were stupid, Malfoy." Hermione seethed. "But now I know you're mad. You can't honestly think that I won't report you for this."

"You loved it," Draco informed her smugly. "You moaned like a-"

"Because you forced me to!" Hermione cried. "I didn't want this! I don't want this!"

He reached between them and rested the pad of his thumb on the sensitive flesh between her legs. They were still joined and the shivers of pleasure he gave her resonated through her body and made his arousal resurface. She gasped as he began to harden within her.

"I disagree," Draco said quietly as she shivered. "I think you don't _want_ to want this."

He jerked his hips upwards, hitting a place inside her that caused her eyes to flutter shut for a moment. Her legs were on either side of him, and he traced his hand up one before grabbing hold to the curve of ass guiding her movements over him. Her breath hitched in her throat and admired the arch in her neck as she fought the sensations that were threatening to overtake her. Her reactions to him were inspiring.

Draco reveled in the way her body moved, albeit with reluctance, on his member. But before he could flip her over she began to push at his chest. He ignored her initially, but then her feeble attempts to dissuade him were accompanied by little cries. She had stopped moving altogether except to put distance between them.

"Stop," she whimpered. "Don't..."

She was still hitting at his chest and Draco stilled his rolling movements and caught her hands with his own. He brought them to his lips on a whim and dropped two kisses on the tops of her knuckles. She pulled them from his grasp only to have him snatch them back up. He held them painfully.

"You have to let me go," she told him through her tears.

He didn't respond. Instead he stared into her watery brown eyes. From the angle he could almost see his reflection and the flickering of the fire behind them. He found her so captivating.

His staring unnerved her.

"Please," she asked. "Please, Draco."

His name on her lips gave him pause. His hands released hers. His cock throbbed in her core. His lips parted. He wanted her to say it again.

But Hermione heaved herself backwards and he slipped from her with a wince on his part. She moved to get off the bed and make a run for the door, but he was behind her in an instant. Her feet had been on the ground; she was almost standing when he grabbed her around the waist, and brought her to his chest. His strong arms pulled her into him without yield and she was too weak from their coupling to fight him off. Her arms felt like jelly.

"You're not like other witches," he said against the back of her neck.

She felt very small in that moment.

"Let me go, Malfoy."

"Tomorrow," he promised.

"I won't stand for this," she told him, her voice was soft, but sure. "Tomorrow, you're going to Azkaban for-"

"Shh," he shushed her.

He laid down, and with his arms still around her, brought her down with him. She went reluctantly, but her abdominal muscles could not support both their weight. They landed heavy and Draco immediately covered his body with hers. She thrashed.

"I won't," he promised her as she tried to buck him off. "I won't!" he said again more forcefully.

She stilled.

"Please," she asked of him. "Think about this-"

"You're more beautiful than I thought you would be," he told her suddenly. "And you'll come to appreciate all that I can do for you. All that I hope to accomplish." He sighed and rolled across her so he was pinning her from her other side. "I'm not like the Dark Lord. Fear isn't the only way."

"What-"

"Instincts," he informed her. "Instincts lead me to this. They're rarely wrong." He looked into her eyes. "Going to France tonight was the best decision of my life. What you have to understand, Hermione, is that Astoria was never strong enough. She would have been fine if I had continued my life in diplomacy. If I had sought normalcy...which admittedly I craved right after the war. But I've grown so far since then. Astoria could never be what I need."

"You're insane," Hermione whispered horrified.

He fished behind him for his wand which he had laid haphazardly next to the pillows when they had initially reached the bed. He brought it around and Hermione squirmed, scared of what was to come. He held her down, pinning her with both his body weight and a light but firm hand tracing the dip in her neck. It bobbled as she swallowed deeply. She was so alluring to him and he felt his body continue to respond to her proximity and the smell of their mingled sex.

"Can't I go?" Hermione asked again. Her eyes were following the wand which he put to her face. She closed her eyes. "Please don't kill me."

"I can't," he reminded her and placed his wand in between her frightened teary eyes. The tip hit the bridge of her nose and her eyes shot open, alive with fear.

"Malfoy-"

"_Obliviate_."

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_Done with the 1st chapter! Woah! I must thank my lovely beta Caffeinefreetea without whom this story would be a hopeless pile of misspelled word mush. _

_xoxo-Writethesun_

_PS: Reviews make me write faster :)_


	2. Regards to the Mudblood

_A/N: Thank you all **so** much for all the lovely reviews! I'm so glad you liked the first chapter. That said, brace yourselves! I hope you like this one! My lovely Beta Caffeinefreetea is, as always, instrumental in making my writing legible...which is why I apologize for this chapter, it is mostly unbeta-ed. My lovely Beta has a lot of work :( Sorry if there are errors.  
_

_Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine, except Tuffle the house elf, who I really wish could clean my apartment for me (and fix my washing machine)._

_Warnings: Mature. Adult. Noncon (aka please be old enough and/or emotionally prepared enough to read noncon). I won't be offended if you stop reading now.  
_

* * *

**Regards to the Mudblood**

There were four things to remember, really, when obliviating someone. The first and second were easy enough to do correctly. Concentrate on the memories you want to remove, and recite the incantation. The third step, only slightly more challenging (simply in its immeasurable boredom), was to stay with the person for the thirty minute period immediately following the spell of extreme confusion and possible hysteria. The fourth step was the reason there were so many long term patients in St. Mungo's, Draco had often thought in private. To be completely successful, the oblivate spell was best followed up with a rather powerful Draught of Living Death potion. Not particularly difficult to brew for anyone with half a mind, but most of the people who used the oblivate spell, did so under duress and so did not complete the most essential part of the process to ensure no lasting brain damage.

And Draco rather liked Hermione's brain.

Draco pulled his wand away from his dazed wife and laid it down next to them. Her eyes were wide and confused, and he reached a hand up to close them for her. Brains were innately intelligent, and her's would be trying to fight off the spell (to no avail) until he made her drink the Draught of Living Death.

He rolled from her still form, instantly missing the heat their bodies shared. He took his time standing, allowing his relaxed muscles time to adjust to his upright position. A mirror hanging over the unused vanity adjacent to his bed reflected not only the room around him, but his flushed face and contented silver eyes. He turned away from it, preferring to fix his gaze on the woman he had just claimed as his own.

The fire cracked as the wind picked up outside and heated the blaze through the flue. Draco could hear several of the magical plants in the gardens outside the windows bowing and rustling against the wind. He retrieved his wand from the bed and shot an inflamare spell at the flames to augment them.

Draco snapped his fingers and called Tuffle to watch over Hermione while he went to find the potion. He didn't have time to make it, obviously, but his mother had been somewhat of a savant when it came to such things. Draco hadn't been in her private collection since she had died. But he was more than sure he would find what he was looking for.

The little creature arrived promptly with a low bow and an uncurious gaze and took a dutiful stance, eyes averted, next to the bed in a silent vigil. Draco did not doubt his spell work, but he wanted Tuffle there in case Hermione's mind tried to reject the charm. She was willful; he had to give her that.

Casting Hermione one last lingering look, Draco didn't bother to put on clothes as he left the room and wandered down the halls of his ancestral home. The portraits were, dare say, used to his habits by now, and the cold night air quelled the uncomfortable state of his arousal.

The torches in the hallways lit themselves as they sensed Draco's presence. The turns were familiar, safe.

Towards the end of her life, his mother had moved to a wing separate from the one she had shared with his father. Lucius had refused to let her move anything personal, like her clothes or jewelry to the new part of the manor she occupied, but a modest sized bedroom and bath had been made up for her in her favorite lavender color scheme and a small reading nook had been designed around her personal potions laboratory. It was in the part of the manor that was usually the warmest, facing south.

He walked towards the oak door that housed the potion collection before hesitating. His body refused to step inside. His hand slid over the wood, warped with time and holding the feint but clinging smells of potion ingredients. Draco pushed it open, but did not enter. It was dark inside, and he did not bother lighting the candles that were charmed to illuminate it. He felt rather ridiculous. It was just a room. There shouldn't have been anything keeping him from entering.

And yet...he held up his wand and cast a summoning charm.

"_Accio_," he said softly.

A small vial flew into his hand. The glass was old. He was familiar with the set. It was his mother's from her years at Hogwarts a lifetime ago. _NB_ was inscribed into the outside in large calligraphic letters in gold. He turned the vial over in his hand, sparing it a nostalgic glance, before dropping the hand down to his side and making his way back to his room where he, with surprising gentleness, administered the potion to his new wife.

Draco hadn't planned on watching her until she regained consciousness. He dismissed Tuffle as soon as the potion was tipped down her throat. The effects were slow, but sure. Her breathing evened and slowed. Her face was soothed of all traces of frowns or worries. Her body temperature dropped. Draco summoned the dressing gown that had been his mother's from the floor and, using his wand to levitate Hermione to a maneuverable position, slipped it around her and tied it so that she would not unduly suffer the chilling effects of the potion. A quick ___Scourgify_ left her body clean of their mingled scents and fluids.

He also used his wand to, once he had levitated her back to the bed's surface, lift the cream colored sheets and comforter over her person.

Draco felt his breath hitch.

She looked like innocence incarnate. When she wasn't talking, of course. He felt a soft smile play over his closed lips at the thought of how she had hit him that night. Twice. She had tried for more. He rubbed his jaw, idly. Thinking about summoning Tuffle for a small healing potion. He had no doubt it would bruise. She would be perfect for his plans. He wasn't sure why he hadn't seen it before. She was exactly what his campaigned needed, what he needed for the future he envisioned for the wizarding populous of England. Draco felt invigorated. He conjured a chair, set it out by the bed, sat, and waited, a curious expression etched over his pointedly handsome face for Hermione to wake up from his bed.

It was around six in the morning that Hermione finally did awaken in what could only really be described as an acute state of confusion and/or panic. Her eyes felt like there was sand rubbing at the insides of her lids and her head was throbbing as though a stampede of male blast-ended-skrewts were vying for the last female of their species.

The truly disconcerting thing, besides the fact that she felt as though she had just come out of the deepest sleep of her life, was that the ceiling above her wasn't that of her flat she shared with Ron, or the house the Weasley family had purchased them for their wedding. In fact, she didn't recognize the ceiling to be any ceiling that she remembered at all. And Hermione's memory could not be matched. There was nothing in recent memory that she could not remember.

She blinked.

She sat up with startling speed. Where was she? She turned, her body rolling in the almost unworldly soft blankets of the bed she was on. Malfoy Manor, her mind whispered to her, unbidden. She remembered going there with Draco Malfoy the night before for some reason. She must still be there. She quelled the panic by running her hands up her face and over her hair in a soothing gesture, but then groaned. Her hair had taken on a life of its own in the night. Her heart beat accelerated as she realized it was morning.

Light was streaming in through the large, floor to ceiling, 16th century French style windows. Hermione could hear birds singing outside, and she noticed there was a fire that was keeping the room warm at the far side. She ripped the covers off herself, wondering how she had gotten there in the first place, and almost fell over the sitting form of Draco Malfoy as she tripped over a chair that had been placed near the side of the bed.

She hadn't even noticed he was there.

Hermione's eyes widened comically.

"What are you doing here?" She asked harshly.

"It's my room," Draco informed her, standing. He had eventually, sometime during the night, put on clothes, and he looked striking in his light grey robes. They brought out the color of his eyes. "You passed out," he lied. "You had Tuffle worried, at any rate. So I brought you here."

"Passed out," she repeated, almost not believing it. It was so unlike her to pass out. She wished she could remember the details. There was a haze in her mind. She shook her head.

"How rude of me," Draco said in a tone that sounded like he didn't feel he had been rude at all. "You're head must be hurting after how much you drank last night. I'll have Tuffle bring you something. He's become quite proficient over the years."

"Drank…" Hermione repeated, frowning. She remembered he hadn't let her leave. She remembered following him up to a room, she looked around, not the one she was in now. She had had tea…no…it had been more whiskey than tea.

Hermione had never been the largest fan of whiskey. She was one of the lucky ones after the war who hadn't gotten addicted to it. Firewhiskey had been banned from the Potter's home, as both Ginny and Harry had had their fare share of problems with it in their late teens. It had almost cost Harry his job. Hermione wondered what had possessed her to drink it. She knew firsthand what too much alcohol did to a person. Ron had had it the worst. Hermione remembered countless nights she spent soothing him as he tried to overcome the urge to drown his memories in whiskey once he developed an allergy from the overuse of the dreamless sleep potion.

Ron.

It all seemed to come back to Hermione. The room. The fight. The rings. The kiss.

"You kissed me!" Hermione yelled suddenly. She whirled at Draco, pointing a menacing finger at his chest. "How dare you-"

"Kiss my own wife?" He laughed and shrugged unapologetically. "It had to be done."

Hermione deflated. Wife. Somehow she had neglected to remember that small bit of information. For a horrified moment, Draco thought she was going to start crying again, and then…

"Don't get used to it, Malfoy." She said dangerously. "This will be the world's shortest marriage. It will be over before the end of the day. I promise you. You'll have annulment papers by owl by six o'clock tonight."

Draco moved to the door, unfazed by her threat, and reassured that his charm had not altered her memory more than he had intended. He was quiet pleased with himself. "I look forward to it," he told her.

"And I want to leave," Hermione informed him harshly, remembering her lack of wand. Her hands clutched each other with a lack of things to hold on to. "Now. I want to leave now."

"Well," Draco drawled. "By all means. Don't let me stop you." He paused by the door and threw over his shoulder, snapping his fingers, "I'll have an elf deliver you some clothes. Tuffle had to banish your wedding dress. The horrid thing was restricting your air."

And then he left the room.

Hermione felt herself sit down heavy on the bed.

She had loved her wedding dress. She and Ginny had spent weeks finding the perfect one. Agonizing over something she wanted to remember for the rest of her life. And Ron's expression when she glided down the aisle to meet him had been worth the two fights they'd had when she refused to let him see it before the ceremony.

A house elf arrived a few minutes later to deliver Hermione a set of light brown robes. They were tailored beyond anything she felt comfortable wearing, and she had a feeling they were from Narcissa Malfoy's wardrobe. The large mirror over an unused vanity adjacent to where she was standing held her reflection once she was dressed and Hermione cringed at her haggard appearance. She brushed her hands through her tangled brown curls, soothed them down the best she could without a wand or a potion and left.

Leaving the manor was a challenge.

Hermione was gifted in many things and had remembered an astonishing amount of details, plans, and generally useful information in her twenty-six years on the earth; the floor plan of the Malfoy manor was not one of them. It had taken her ten minutes to work her way to what looked like a main staircase. She had been hoping for the front door, something she had only seen once in her life, when she was eighteen and captured by snatchers during the war. But as she peered down the side of the banister it seemed the staircase lead into the ballroom. Hermione shivered. She had no desire to enter that room again in her life if she could help it. One doesn't exactly forget torture, and two years shy of a decade later.

Someone cleared their throat behind her.

She turned around, expecting Draco again, but it was the imposing figure of Lucius Malfoy that faced her. She hadn't expected that. He had aged considerably in his house arrest he had been assigned for the last eight years. His blond hair had turned a dull gray and he was unshaven. His silver eyes promised danger, however, and Hermione found herself walking backwards down the staircase to the ballroom. She felt so naked without her wand.

Vulnerable.

Her hand gripped the banister beside her, balancing her quick steps away from a man who had once wished her dead.

"Ms. Granger," Lucius drawled very much like his son. If he was shocked to see her, he didn't show it. "It's a little early to be making social calls, wouldn't you say?"

Hermione nodded, but kept walking.

She felt as though there was too much adrenalin in her legs. They were shaking, taking the stairs backwards. Her heal was bouncing up every time she tried to put her foot down. Her knuckles were white against the banister, her other hand out by her side, balancing her movements in case she fell. Her eyes never left the man in front of her.

She reached the bottom of the staircase that opened onto the ballroom. Her feet hit the marble floor, and she jumped at the clap of sound that resounded from the union. She kept walking backwards, keeping her eyes fixed on the long haired man. Lucius Malfoy was descending the staircase in front of her with quickening speed. His eyes held all the malice of the world and he was smirking like a jackal.

"The door's the other way," he intoned lightly. Indicating with his head the opposite direction.

Hermione hoped that because she and Draco had apparated in to the manor through this room the day before, she would be able to get out.

_Destination_. _Determination_. _Deliberation_.

She held her breath and disapparated away from the pitiless stare of Draco's father. To the only place where she felt safe, the only place she knew she would still be welcome, the only place outside of Ron that had ever felt like home: Harry's.

She couldn't apparate directly inside, of course. Harry and Ginny's wards were not only top of the line, but a bit on the paranoid side, if you asked Hermione. She apparated to their back garden and passed the rhododendron and lilies growing on either side of the back steps to the kitchen. In the early summer morning air, the fragrance of the blossoming white flowers calmed her somewhat. She inhaled deeply and walked up to the door. It was unlocked.

She took a breath.

It seemed, the Potter home had been the HQ for something or other, requiring an outrageous amount of people to be packed into their modest sized home. Never mind that it was around six thirty in the morning. Most of the room's occupants looked and sounded as though they hadn't slept all night. The noise was deafening. Upon entering, Hermione was greeted with the sight of, she grimaced, the extended Weasley family minus only a few. She wasn't ready to face them. She wasn't ready to talk to anyone but Harry.

Ron was, luckily, nowhere to be seen.

No one noticed her at first. She slipped in the door and saw the kitchen table, usually littered with small infant toys Ginny and Harry insisted on scanning for curses before giving to their infant son James, was overflowing with what appeared to be legal documents, and wizard poker cards. She could hear Ron's voice in the background, thunderous and angry. She quaked at the thought of seeing him. Her stomach turned. She gasped for breath. She had no desire to hear his voice, not until she could sort out her own emotions.

There were a few people she knew besides the Weasley family. Dennis Creevey, who had become somewhat of a savant lawyer in the ministry was deep in conversation with George Weasley in the entryway between the kitchen and living room. Hermione could see a few people that looked like reporters talking to Arthur Weasley by the kitchen sink. He looked drawn and pail. The election had been taking a lot out of him. Hermione hoped with all that she was that he would win. He would be a perfect Minister of Magic. He was the embodiment of kind and compassionate.

The others in the kitchen were a mystery.

"Hermione!"

It seemed everyone had seen her at once. There was a chorus of sound, too loud to discern what anyone was saying exactly. But questions and voices were being hurled at her. Hermione looked around, wide-eyed and overwhelmed. Suddenly, she was enveloped in the warmth of a hug.

"Hermione!" It was Molly, her would-be-mother-in-law that greeted her fiercely by sweeping her up in a bone crushing hug. Hermione felt the older woman heave a few shuddering breaths, relief evident in the length of their embrace. "We were...so, so worried," she said into her ear. "How are you?"

The room only grew louder and Molly, sensing Hermione was uncomfortable, sent a withering glare over her shoulder that had a profound effect to say the least.

The room quieted.

People turned away to afford an impossible measure of privacy as Molly continued to pat Hermione arms and face as though she were not fed enough. There seemed to be a collective sigh of relief that she was alright, and Hermione saw Angelina Weasley, George's wife, discreetly slip from the room, presumably to tell the rest of the house of her arrival. She could still hear Ron's booming voice, echo through the house.

"How are you, dear?" Molly asked again.

The woman who Hermione had grown so close to over the years looked tired. Molly had rings around her eyes, and her normally greying red hair hung limply around her shoulders. She looked so concerned Hermione almost felt guilty for the lack of sleep she must have had the night before.

"I'm fine," lied Hermione quietly, it carried in the near silence. "Where's Harry?"

"Hermione!" Ginny exclaimed.

She had just arrived into the kitchen, no doubt the information had been passed around the house as fast as possible.

Hermione turned and faced the redheaded wife of her best friend. Ginny had always been easy to talk to as well. She gave her younger friend a watery smile, and they exchange a brief, but heartfelt, hug. Ginny was three and a half months pregnant, and in the June heat, was uncomfortable with drawn out physical contact.

"Where's Harry?" Hermione asked again.

"He's upstairs with James," Ginny told her. She ushered her through the mass of people, who, upon realizing Hermione would not be sharing any information as to her whereabouts the night before, gave up the pretense of working so that they could listen in, and continued with whatever they were doing. Arthur Weasley placed a kind hand on Hermione's shoulder as the two women passed him. She leaned into it gratefully.

The living room was much the same as the kitchen had been. People were pouring over scrolls and some were eating finger food off of self-serving trays that hovered a few feet off the ground and went around the room.

"What is all this?" Hermione asked Ginny, already guessing the answer.

"We're trying to find a way for you to stay married to Ron," Ginny told her. "Assuming that's what you want to do." She paused and sighed, perhaps indicating her frustration with the whole thing. "We're trying to get you divorced from Malfoy, at any rate."

Hermione made her left hand into a fist and self-consciously fisted the sleeve of Narcissa's robe around her hand. She would die if someone saw the ring Draco had put on her the night before. She wished desperately she could remove it.

The Potter's residence was so comfortable in comparison to the harsh Manor that Malfoy called home. The floors, for one thing, were not made of stone, something that (while Hermione had enjoyed it at Hogwarts) diminished the light in any room. The floor of living room was a rich wood covered by a light rug. The poor thing was ___Scourgify_'ed almost every day with the amount of things James spilled on it. The space was inviting, though, and everything from the light green window hangings to the light blue furniture (now covered in people and things) made Hermione's body relax.

"Marriage laws are archaic at best," Ginny continued as they made their way upstairs. Pictures of Harry, Ginny, and both of them with their son hung along the wall that the stairs followed. Hermione couldn't help the jealousy that sprung from the hollow of her neck. "Don't worry. If anything, the ministry will grant you an annulment based on the fact that you're Hermione Granger." Ron's voice filtered through the house again. "What he did to you was awful, Hermione." Ginny told her, frowning at her brother's voice.

Hermione bit her lip. She didn't want to run into Ron. She couldn't…couldn't look at him after the night she'd been through.

"You don't have to say that," said Hermione.

"Don't think that because he's my brother, I'll stand by him." The redheaded witch continued as though Hermione had not spoken at all. "Mum had kittens when she found out. You weren't there. It was really scary. Dad nearly disowned him. We're on your side." She reached a reassuring hand out and squeezed Hermione's elbow. "We all are." And if sensing Hermione's distress as another bout of Ron's voice came through the house, Ginny assured, "We would never let the two of you alone together. Not now. Not until you want to see him. He's in the pantry with Percy. From one idiot to another," she shrugged. "They're locked in and Ron's ranting. We thought it best." She sighed. "You're not the only one who doesn't want to look at him. You should have seen what happened when Harry got wind of the poker game."

They had reached James' nursery. Harry was sitting in the rocking chair that she had purchased for them, an antique redwood that had captivated her sense of aesthetic at one of the numerous ministry auctions that they held in attempts to raise Galleons for different charities. He looked older than his twenty-five years. His glasses were askew and he was absentmindedly watching the crib next to him, a frown marring his handsome face.

He stood as soon as they entered, eyes enlarging at the sight of his best friend with his wife, and Hermione found herself flying into his arms.

"Hermione," he said with a sigh of relief. "You're here. Thank Merlin…"

He held her for a moment and Ginny moved towards James. The baby was asleep in his crib. At six months, he was round and perfect, a smattering of black hair on his chubby head and Ginny's mischievous brown eyes when they were open. Hermione had been honored by Harry and Ginny's desire to see her as his godmother. She and Ron had been asked at their engagement party the year before. Hermione swallowed hard.

Ginny picked him up without waking him and put him to her shoulder. He stirred, making a soft noise of protest before sleeping soundly against the body of his mother. Ginny bounced slightly where she stood, soothing him further. His legs kicked out in his sleep, twitching as he relaxed. They were covered in a light blue onesie and Hermione found herself fascinated by how impossibly small his feet were. He was such a happy baby. He brought his fist to his mouth and cooed around it, a soft baby noise of contentment from the back of his tiny throat, eliciting a smile from both of his parents and even his distressed godmother.

"He always cheers me up," Harry told Hermione knowingly as she watched him. "Let us know if you want to borrow him."

"I'll bring him to our room," Ginny told Harry as she walked out with him.

As soon as they left, the dam broke. Giant hiccupping sobs tore from Hermione's throat and lungs, and she felt like the entirety of her upper respiratory tract was burning with sorrow. Her desperation echoed through the nursery, which, charmed to prevent the crying of babies, began to play lullabies and mobiles danced around the crib and changing table by invisible strings. Harry _finite_'ed all of the spells he'd set up for James and guided Hermione to the very chair he had just vacated and conjured one for himself to sit on.

He let her cry for a while. She was frustrated. She was disappointed. Hermione had been planning her wedding for months, dreaming about it for years. It was supposed to have been the happiest day of her life. And she wished she had asked Ginny if she could borrow something of hers. Hermione needed to get out of Narcissa Malfoy's clothes.

"Ron said Malfoy took you," Harry said once Hermione had calmed a bit. "Did he hurt you?"

"Ron wagered me on a poker table," Hermione announced. It felt better to say it out loud. To face it head on. "He did it to participate in losing a bottle of illegal goblin made liquor."

"He told me," said Harry soberly.

"How _could_ he?"

"I asked him that as well," gritted Harry in a slow and deep voice, his scowl looking eerily like the late Professor Snape's.

"And what did he say?"

"Not much. Not that he could have. Ginny and I had plenty to say on the matter," said Harry. "And then when Molly and Arthur found out…I'm surprised he wasn't disinherited."

"I wish we could turn back time."

"Well, we are doing our damnedest to make sure this gets turned around." Harry assured. "I called just about everyone I know. I'm sure you saw some of them downstairs when you came up. About half went home to get some sleep around four this morning. They should be back this afternoon with fresh ideas. We'll get through this, Hermione." She rubbed her eyes and shook her head, looking down. "Did he hurt you?"

There was a bit of silence.

Hermione didn't feel hurt. Physically at least, but inside she was in pieces.

"He kissed me," Hermione admitted. "It wasn't...gentle."

Harry's eyes darkened.

"I'll kill him." He promised. "Did he hurt you beyond that? Did he…" Harry hesitated. "Touch you?"

"No," Hermione said touching her hands to her lips. "Just the kiss." She wouldn't remembered if he'd done more than that. She would never have allowed it. Her voice took on a steely quality. "But he shouldn't have."

"No," Harry agreed. "He shouldn't have."

"He held me at the Malfoy Manor against my will," she continued. "He refused to let me leave until this morning. I didn't have my wand. There was nothing I could do. But we're not going to let him get away with this, right Harry? I want to press charges. I need you to take my statement. I want him in Azkaban."

Harry looked uncomfortable.

"Legally he's your husband. He was within his rights to keep you in your home."

"Malfoy manor is not my home!" Hermione cried, horrified at the thought. "He can't keep me there! He shouldn't have been able to! It's not right!"

"No," Harry agreed. "But Hermione..." He hesitated. "Be careful, please. We're working as hard as we can. We have everyone we can think of working get you out of this situation. But, you should know that until we fix this...Malfoy can do anything he wants."

Hermione gave a rather undignified snort through her sparse tears. She rocked back and forth in the chair and tilted her head to watch the snitch and quaffle mobile above her head.

"I rather doubt that, Harry."

"Malfoy's not to be underestimated," Harry said seriously. "He usually gets his way."

This statement wasn't entirely true. Across England, at the Malfoy Manor, at that very moment, Draco Malfoy was in fact not getting his way in the slightest. Rather, he was stuck in a particularly asinine conversation with his father.

They were convened in the upstairs study that had once been Lucius'. It had _passed_ to Draco after Narcissa Malfoy had died. Passed being an obvious euphemism for forcibly removed, when the younger Malfoy had claimed it punishingly from his father. A penalty, taking away his paterfamilias' last hold on the life he had used to have.

Draco had found himself incapable of sleep after Hermione left, and wandered to his study more out of habit than any particular desire to work. There was much to be done. Proposals mostly, and a few meetings to schedule with the French minister of Magic. The bewilderingly large eyebrowed man from the night before, Francis, had pledged to contribute a few hundred thousand galleons to Draco's campaign if he strengthened English-French relations. Draco could have hired someone else to do this work, of course, but boredom and the inability to play well with others drove him to solitude.

He preferred it that way.

Tasks that Draco tended to delegate to other people were tasks that he could not perform, not tasks that he wished he didn't have to. Allocation had been the Dark Lords undoing, in Draco opinion. The half-booded megalomaniac had trusted parts of his soul to other people. Draco didn't even trust his father to bring him his mail.

But all Draco's attempts at work for the day seemed to be futile. He had only been sitting in his study for a few hours when his father had come in a swirl of formal robes, buttoned to his unshaven chin, and a wild look in his eyes that would have frightened anyone but his own son. Draco looked up at his father and took note that he had probably been deliberating on how to best approach his son for some time. Upon further inspection the deep green robes Lucius was dressed in, almost black, (Draco noted) were haphazardly buttoned. And his hair still looked wet from the tap. Disgusting.

"Why was there a mudblood in my house this morning Draco?" Lucius demanded.

He kept himself in the doorway, neither in nor out of the study completely. Draco was sprawled in the chair behind the mahogany desk. His arms stretched out behind him and crossed and the elbow behind his head. He raised an eyebrow at his father, leaving no outward indication that he knew anything about Hermione's presence in the house.

"Technically," Draco drawled. "It's my house."

"Hermione Granger." said Lucius pointedly. "I ran in to her this morning on my way to breakfast." Lucius elaborated when Draco said nothing, "Well before seven."

Draco said nothing. He frowned and uncrossed his arms. He leaned forwards onto the desk and made a show of going through some the papers he had yet to go through regarding the upcoming elections and his candidacy for minister of magic. He flicked his wand, summoning one of the books from the large shelves that lined each of the four walls from ceiling to floor. He waited until his father's foot was tapping impatiently on the ground and the corner of his mouth was developing a slight curl to say anything.

"Strange," Draco finally offered. "Seems a bit early for a social call."

"Don't mock me, Draco!" pronounced Lucius. "What was the bitch doing here?"

"Run along, Father." Draco dismissed, a certain darkness coating his words. "I have work to do, and-"

"You forget your place," Lucius said. His hand seemed to be itching for a wand that had been snapped by the ministry seven years before.

His hair was wild, disheveled, as were his eyes. "I might be rid of my wand, boy. But that does not make me-"

"Impotent?"

Lucius practically growled. "Don't think I didn't notice what she was wearing," he seethed. "How dare you put one of your whores in your mother's robes." When Draco held his silence, Lucius lost his mind, "Look at me!" And again when Draco didn't, "Look at me!" His tone was bordering on full out disgust. "You can't, can you?" He spat at Draco. "You can't look at me and pretend you didn't…You sicken me. You disgrace your mother. That…mudblood isn't good enough to look at the robes your mother used to wear. How dare you sully Narcissa silks with…" He trailed off, seething.

"Hmm," Draco hummed noncommittally, still refusing to look at his father. The room's temperature had taken a sharp rise, and the air around Lucius was almost vibrating with his fury.

"You're mother would be disgusted," Lucius snarled, continuing. "In my day, children were taught to respect their fathers." Draco said nothing and Lucius took a menacing step further into the study. "I said look at me, boy! What have you to say for yourself?" and when Draco said nothing again, Lucius reverted to what he was comfortable with, "You're pathetic," he mocked. "Not _my_ son."

Draco sighed, entwining his fingers in front of him on the desk and staring up at his father's violent gaze. He had stopped being scared of him during the war, when he had realized that his father valued his own life above that of his wife and son. Draco had spent a great deal of his life being called various forms of the word pathetic, coward being among them, but he had never once considered saving himself for the sake of maintaining his own life. That thought, at least, made him stand out from his father. The fact remained that Draco was the last Malfoy, and if he died, centuries of magic, reserved for his bloodline alone would be lost. As heir, he was entrusted with the future generations of his family, and that responsibility was both ancient and noble, taking precedent above the petty loyalties of childhood friendships or murderous dark lords. Lucius had no excuse for using Draco during the war to save his reputation and indeed his life. And the amount of times Lucius had put Draco's mother in danger was inexcusable.

"Hermione's not a whore," said Draco eventually.

"_Hermione_ is it?"

"You won't call her a whore again."

"Is that so?" Lucius drawled menacingly. "So you didn't have her on her back last night?"

Draco offered no further explanation. Instead he picked up his wand and pointed it towards his father, never breaking eye contact or giving any indication that he was thinking of something other than the weather or, perhaps, what he would eventually ask Tuffle to bring him for breakfast. His hand held steady in front of him reflected the grace of his breeding, and his eyes were, characteristically bored, a sign for anyone who knew him at all, that he was really enjoying himself.

Lucius' eyes widened. He knew what was happening a moment before it came. His body rocked back, ready to move out of the study entirely before it was too late.

"_Crucio_."

The intonation was almost an afterthought.

Lucius dropped to his knees. He was too proud to utter a word, or let any sound of pain escape his twitching lips. But his eyes were closed in concentration and sweat began to bead on his brow. His teeth were clenched as were his fists at his sides.

Keeping his wand on his father, Draco looked back towards his paperwork. The election was only in a few short weeks and, admittedly, his campaigning had been less effective than he had hoped. He pursed his lips. He wasn't worried about the pure blood vote. All the old families had contributed greatly to his campaign donations and pledged themselves to back him in the polls. There were just not enough of them. New wizards were born and brought into wizarding society all the time, while the ancient and noble families dwindled in a genealogical upside-down pyramids as two uniting families bore one child generation after generation.

What he needed was the popular vote.

And for that he would need to speak to Pansy. He pulled out a quill and ink, and jotted down a note to himself about speaking with her in the near future regarding the press. Never mind how many checks he wrote to good causes or smiles, albeit a bit contrived, he showed to the public. He needed to rid himself of his previous association with the wrong side of the last English wizarding war. Hermione came into his mind unbidden. Before the night had run away with him, he had thought her position as his wife might be useful.

His marriage would yet be beneficial in the campaign.

There was a large crash in front of him. Draco looked over his desk to see his father had fallen completely to the ground, taking out a side table and the Chinese vase that had sat atop it for a century with him. The older man was frothing at the mouth, convulsing, and his eyes were fluttering open and closed revealing the yellowed whites. Small choked grunts were escaping his mouth, interspersed with horrid gagging coughs.

Draco resolved he would decide on the best way to have Pansy run an article in the Prophet on his marriage after breakfast. He hadn't eaten since the food Patrick had provided him at the Delacour Chateau in France the night before.

It really was good fortune that Pansy had purchased the controlling interest of the Daily Prophet a few years before. Having a love for gossip, the option of being the silent and decision making partner of England's most prestigious newspaper had been a gift from husband number two, before dying under slightly suspicious circumstances in Spain the year before. Draco had yet to use her connection to the media as a resource, but, now seemed as good a time as ever. And besides, Pansy owed him a few favors from their years in school, and knowing the favors Draco usually asked of people, she would be happy to even the score a bit with something that wouldn't cost her in blood, sweat, or absurd amounts of time.

Roasted duck in a candied plum glaze, Draco decided, his mouth watering at the thought. There was a lovely place in the south of France that put his house elves to shame, but the house elves would have to do for now. Perhaps with a nice green salad and it was never too early for a scotch. Breakfast foods were uninteresting. He would have Tuffle inform the kitchen immediately.

Draco stood and stepped over the convulsing mass of his father, careful not to let the sweat that was popping up all over the older man touch the hem of his robes. He lifted the spell in much the same way he had cast it, and left the room, his father's gasping breaths chasing him down the hallway.

Hopefully by the time Draco got back, one of the elves would have replaced the side table and vase his father had so carelessly disturbed. Draco needed to work on his strategies for acquiring the popular vote, and at some point in the day, he would need to retrieve his wife from what he was sure would be, the home of Harry Potter.

As luck would have it, Draco didn't have to wait to speak to Pansy Flint.

The newly remarried silent owner of the Daily Prophet was waiting for him at his breakfast table. She was perfectly poised, sitting with her legs crossed at the ankle in sweeping teal robes and her midnight hair brushed up into a French twist. She waited for him to sit before snapping her fingers. Different breakfast foods appeared in silver platters in front of them. The food was far too extravagant and too much for two people, but neither of them seemed to notice.

He was far from surprised to see her at his table. They had been relatively close in their youth, as close as Draco had been to anyone, really, and Narcissa Malfoy had invited Pansy over a couple of summers in hopes of dissuading Lucius from betrothing their son to the youngest Greengrass girl. The attraction had never been there. While Pansy was very pretty and aristocratic in her features, she was thick-boned, and far too cunning for Draco to trust her while he slept. And there was the slight problem of her upturned nose. Admittedly, Draco could look past it if he settled. But Draco never settled.

Pansy must have apparated directly into the house. The first thing Draco decided he would do as Minister of Magic was reinstating the wards around his home and grounds. Under the series of acts Minister Shacklebolt had enacted in the seven years of his term after the war, the former death eaters of England had quickly lost their freedoms and their privacy. Under the guise of securing the safety of the masses, Draco and his compatriots had lost their magical means of protection.

"It's nearly ten-thirty, Draco." Pansy complained. "I thought you would never come down for breakfast."

"You were the one who dropped by unannounced."

Pansy pursed her lips, and failed to mask the flash of unease in her eyes. "Are you terribly angry?"

Draco let the silence marinate between them until Pansy was squirming in her chair.

"No. You saved me a floo," Draco said finally. He snapped his own fingers and Tuffle appeared in a low bow. "Duck and plum. You know how I like it," he told the elf, who disappeared to, no doubt, inform the kitchen elves of their master's desire and perhaps punish himself for good measure.

Pansy relaxed and poised herself to eat.

"Something told me our paths would cross today." Pansy took a discreet portion of a cheese, mushroom, and tomato omelet onto her plate and cut it delicately with her knife and fork. She hummed around the bite and cut another. "Call it...divination."

"You were never very gifted in the art of divination," Draco mused." He poured himself a glass of pumpkin juice from a crystal pitcher. "What lead you to prophesize of this…" he gestured between them and then to his breakfast table "…fortunate encounter?"

"I've heard quite an interesting rumor."

"This encounter feels less like divination and more like you're need to satisfy your gossip quota of the day," Draco said wryly.

"I have it on good authority you married buck-tooth Granger off a game of wizards poker at her own wedding," she informed him bluntly. Draco said nothing, but grinned devilishly at her candor. He had missed spending time with Pansy. "Really, I think the weasel had you on this time, Draco." She continued, "If even a bit of what I've heard is true, he's got off without a wife and you found yourself tethered to a mudblood."

Draco schooled his features to a lazy smirk.

"Don't believe everything you hear," was all Draco graced her with.

Again, he pushed the silence to the brink of being uncomfortable. Pansy was taking smaller and smaller bites. Her eyes watching him from their corners to see if he would say anything else on the matter. Draco knew she wouldn't push him if he told her not to. She was schooled in the art of dealing with pure blood wizards. She'd been married to at least three of them. The most recent of them, Marcus Flint, Draco's childhood quidditch teammate.

"So tell me," Draco asked. "How is Marcus?"

The question was rather useless to either of them. Draco had, in fact, seen Marcus Flint a few days earlier during one of his campaign fundraisers, and Pansy, he was sure, hadn't seen her husband in the past few weeks at least. If he knew her at all, she had already taken a lover.

"Fine," Pansy rushed, annoyance on her breath. "Never mind Marcus. Did you or did you not marry Hermione Granger?"

This, Draco decided to ignore. "I heard the two of you bought a fair amount of land in Germany," he continued conversationally. He pulled a couple of grapes onto the plate before him and pushed them around across the serrations on the rim. "A curious time to try to leave the country, if that's what you intended."

"Three of my reporters were called to Potter's last night," Pansy told him in a hurry. "He's furious, apparently. Gave an entire account of what transpired at the Granger-Weasley wedding yesterday. They have the whole thing in his words." And interpreting his lack of response as an indication that he hadn't understood her, she repeated, "Potter's words, Draco."

"Why Germany though, I wonder?" continued Draco. "Your estate here has much better weather, if such a thing were possible."

"I'm worried," Pansy told him. "I've always considered us friends. And I don't think your campaigned is going to survive a kidnapping charge. You're second to Weasley in the poles as it is."

"You're distantly German if I remember correctly."

"No one's ever won after they tried to go against Potter."

"Unless you've decided to flee the country on the off chance that Arthur Weasley wins the election and becomes our Minister of Magic, in which case I can't blame you at all. It is a horrifying thought...though...not a possibility."

"Draco, you've always had a blatant disregard for your person," Pansy hedged. "But this is different. The type of poker you were playing was barely legal...and the scandal of-"

"Merlin knows," Draco interrupted her. "You have enough vacation homes between your inheritance and what your husbands left you-"

"Ex-husbands," Pansy pointed out. She sighed, thinking the conversation was lost and relented, "And we bought the land in Germany, if you must know, to give to my grandmother. You remember Alberta? She won't leave us alone. I need her far away before she tries to slip me a fertility potion. The woman is mental for great-grandchildren." She paused, taking a bite of her omelet. "Don't be ridiculous. I certainly have no intention of speaking German for the rest of my life."

"Don't worry about Potter," Draco said evenly. He rolled a grape between his forefinger and thumb before pulling it between his lips. His silver eyes met her concerned green and in an uncharacteristic display of humanity he touched two of his fingers to the inside of her wrist she had resting lightly on the edge of the table. "I'll have an article for you by the end of the day."

"I-"

"For the prophet tomorrow," he clarified.

"But-"

"Let me worry about Potter," Draco told her with quiet confidence. A dish appeared in front of him, smelling of a wonderful candied plum sauce. Draco salivated in anticipation and placed a generous portion of duck on his plate. "He's not as powerful as he thinks."

This statement proved to be startlingly accurate several hours later at the Ministry of Magic. Unable to get the solutions they had been looking for from the brigade of people downstairs in the Potter home, Harry and Hermione had slipped out to visit Amelia Bones, head of the Wizengamot and one of the few experts on English Magical law.

The problems that Harry's team had been having were simply that there wasn't enough information about the specific marriage Hermione had underwent to research it fully. Dennis Creevey had been flummoxed. One of the top legal minds of the day, and he didn't even know where to begin. Percy Weasley had tried his hand at figuring the whole thing out to no avail as well. It was frustrating, but Harry had every confidence that the combined strength of his friends and associates would be enough to terminate the marriage by the end of the day and have Hermione make good on her promise to Malfoy that she would have divorce papers served to him by owl at six o'clock pm.

The day was rapidly turning into a hot one, but Hermione had been none the less thankful to borrow a pair of Ginny's muggle jeans, and a long sleeved shirt. The red-headed witch had looked at her like she was quite mad, but said nothing when Hermione made her preference at the length of sleeve. It really was hot outside for June, but Hermione was determined to hide Draco Malfoy's ring from anyone's eyes. So far, no one had noticed at all. She supposed it was because she had been wearing a ring on her left hand for over a year. But she didn't want to think about Ron.

She had had a shower, thank Merlin, and was feeling surprisingly more optimistic as she stepped into Madam Bones' office.

It was understated for a woman of her position and decorated in warm earth tones. Amelia was seated in a beautifully carved chair behind a large desk covered in neatly stacked piles of parchment and several different colored ink wells. She wasn't a large woman, only coming up to Hermione's bottom lip at most, and her hair was a waterfall of silver behind her back. She wore white spectacles which highlighted her gentle blue eyes.

She had done a beautiful job with the wedding ceremony the day before. Her melodic voice had lilted around the words of the vows in a way that Hermione wished she could cherish. Amelia was a master, pausing in the right places, performing the binding spells flawlessly, and holding a smile for an impossibly long time if one took into account all of Ron's, albeit endearing, blunders in pronunciation.

"Auror Potter," Amelia greeted kindly as Harry and Hermione walked in unannounced. "Hermione Weasley. Congratulations again." She pulled a pair of elegant silver spectacles from her face and set them down on the desk in front of her. "This is a rather pleasant surprise. Auror Potter never takes the time to visit me," she shot Harry a playful look which he didn't reciprocate and turned to Hermione, "And I rather thought you'd be well on your way to your honeymoon by now."

"That's actually why we're here," Harry told the older women. "May we sit?"

"Please," Amelia Bones told them, and with her wand conjured two comfortable looking white chairs in front of her desk.

Harry and Hermione sat gratefully. It had been a long day already.

"There's been a..." Harry seemed to consider the right wording, "delay in the wedding."

Amelia frowned, rustling through her desk.

"That's not possible," she told them indicating to her desk. "The document isn't here. It must have filed itself this morning. There's no problem." Hermione bit her lip, Harry looked grim, and Amelia, misinterpreting their melancholy hurried on, "Oh. It's supposed to do that. They're spelled to repel any illegal alteration. Don't worry. The marriage has been filed. You'll receive your copy by owl in the next month or so."

"No," Hermione told her. "I…the contract was never filed because it never made it to your office."

"I brought it here myself," Amelia told her emphatically. "Right after the ceremony. They're scheduled to file every twelve hours. You're not the first muggleborn to worry about the system-"

"Ron wagered the contract in a game of poker," Harry told the older witch quietly. He shifted in his chair and looked into her shocked eyes. "He lost." Amelia blinked, reaching her hands up and soothing her silver hair nervously. "The marriage was somehow…transferred over. We were hoping you could help us."

"Who won the game?" Amelia questioned. Hermione could practically see her cataloging the wedding guests in her mind.

"Draco Malfoy," Harry supplied with a scowl.

It was as if all the air had left the room. The older witch sat backwards in her chair and placed a hand across her embroidered robes. Harry sat up in his chair, more eager now that it seemed Amelia was taking the whole thing seriously.

"I didn't see him at the wedding," Amelia said quietly.

"He wasn't invited," Hermione said, matching her tone.

Hermione took a breath and explained the situation as best she could to the concerned ministry official before them. It took everything within Hermione not to wring her hands and burst into tears. She wasn't usually this weepy. She prided herself on her strength, and as strange as it was to associate herself with a school house so many years later, her Gryffindor courage.

The longer she talked, and especially when she spoke in detail for the first time about the ritual that had taken place the night before with her and Draco's blood, the more concerned Amelia Bones' face became.

Hermione's own face burned under Harry's scrutiny and she resisted the urge to hide her left hand behind herself. The ring was warm on her finger, a constant reminder of the marriage she wished had never happened. But all too soon, Amelia gestured with her hands that she wanted to see Hermione's, beckoning her closer with outstretched fingers and a curious and questioning look. And with reluctance, and movements so slow it was clear she was resisting, Hermione lifted her left hand up, straining her body over the desk in front of her and into Amelia's view. The older witch picked her spectacles up from where they rested and put them back on her nose, peering closely at the Malfoy ring.

"I have one myself," Amelia told her, leaning back and holding up her own aged left hand. Her sympathetic smile crushed Hermione's heart more than any look of disgust or fear could have. "We purebloods love our traditions," she continued wryly. "And not everything can be undone once both parties have committed to it."

"But Hermione didn't want any of this," Harry said, more than a little confused.

"That's not relevant," said Amelia.

"It makes all the difference," Harry argued, not without frustration. "Tell us this is illegal so I can arrest him and we can find a way for her to get a divorce-"

"There has to be something I can do," Hermione persisted, interrupting Harry. "I didn't consent. I didn't consent!"

"Then how was the ceremony completed?" asked Amelia, shifting in her chair. Harry stared blankly between the two women.

"I told you," said Hermione. "There was an exchange of blood-"

"You said that," Amelia pointed out. "But how did he take your blood?"

"I…" Hermione flushed. "He caught me unaware. He cut my hand."

"He hurt you!" demanded Harry.

Hermione ignored him.

"Please," she asked the older witch. Her fingertips were turning white she was clutching at her hands with such force. "There _has_ to be something you can do to make this right. I _cannot _be married to Draco Malfoy of all people."

"I'll look into it," Amelia offered as one might offer to look into booking a venue they already know is sold out. "But I can't make any promises. Not now. I truly am sorry."

"What do you mean he cut your hand?" Harry asked loudly.

"It was part…" Hermione closed her eyes. "It was ritualistic not…malicious."

"I'll arrest him for it, all the same." Harry seethed.

"I'm afraid that is impossible, Auror Potter." Amelia told him somewhat formally. "As it was ritualistic as Mrs…as…well," she stuttered, unsure as to how she should address Hermione. "…as Ms. Granger said. It falls under a different category of magic. Short of using an unforgivable on…Hermione, Mr. Malfoy cannot be brought to any kind of justice." Her eyes softened as she caught sight of Hermione's expression. Taking her worn hand she reached out and caught Hermione's across the desk. "I really will look into this. You have my word."

They hadn't gone back to the Potter residence immediately. Hermione was unwilling to admit defeat to the Weasley family, and Harry was fuming. They had wandered to a park a quarter mile from Harry's home in Godric's Hollow. This late in the afternoon, there were no children playing on the muggle swing set that had been set up in a play area (at Harry's insistence, really, as Godric's Hollow was a wizarding town), and they had each taken a swing to sit on and reflect. Hermione was wary of what Harry would say. He had been suspiciously quiet since they'd left the ministry. He alternated between looking at her and her left hand, which should have born the ring he had picked out with Ron several weeks before. Hermione flushed under the scrutiny, uncomfortable, and flustered.

"Why haven't you taken it off yet?" Harry asked.

"I can't," admitted Hermione ruefully.

"What did Amelia mean by purebloods loving their traditions?" Harry pressed. "And why do you look so defeated. It hasn't even been a day yet, Hermione. We'll figure this out. Give us time. We'll go home, we'll see what someone missed. If anyone can find a way out of this, it's you. It would be a mistake to give up now or assume Malfoy has already won. Amelia may have been able to tell us that the act of marrying you wasn't illegal. But that doesn't mean we won't find something. At least we know that it's common enough for her to know something about it." He pushed on. "The more we know, the more we know, right? Let's find something that we can work with and then-"

"We didn't miss anything," Hermione said softly. "It's blood magic."

"I'm unfamiliar with that," Harry confessed. "Unless you mean something like the dark-magic ring we infiltrated a few years ago. The one we consulted with you about with the runes carved into people's foreheads."

"It's similar," offered Hermione, remembering the case. It had been a rather terrifyingly misguided group of teenagers who carved runes into their sculls in order to boost their magical ability. It had backfired with spectacular results.

Harry's face lit up. "We can get him with this, Hermione." he said with some degree of excitement. "There was nothing about those spells they were developing that wasn't ten shades of illegal. You'll be your own woman again in no time at all."

"It's not that simple."

"It's never that simple," Harry brushed off. "But that doesn't mean we can't find a solution. Everyone we know is working on this. Someone is bound to find the answer."

He kicked off with his legs and began to swing back and forth on the play structure. The wind picked up his black hair and he closed his eyes against the sensations. Hermione tentatively did the same, allowing the back and forth of the swing she was on, sooth the ache of uncertainty that had built up in her chest. For a moment she allowed herself to think it was all going to be alright. The day was uncharacteristically warm for late June in England. Certainly a good omen if Hermione believed in such things. For probably the first time in her life, Hermione found herself wishing she put more stock in the art of divination.

"And if we can't?"

They both stopped swinging, looking back at each other through the poles that held up the structure between them.

"You don't really understand how many people care enough to help you," Harry told her. "We _will_ find a solution. You have my word."

"And if we can't?" Hermione repeated.

"Well..." Harry reached a hand to his head and messed up his hair irreversibly, his face scrunching in thought. "I'll arrest him. For everything and anything possible," he chuckled darkly. "_I'll_ come up with something, and _he'll_ spend the rest of his useless life in Azkaban."

Hermione tsked, "That's illegal, Harry."

Harry managed a grin. "There's the old Hermione," he told her pushing back with his legs and swinging high. "Aren't you supposed to be the eternal optimist out of the two of us?"

Hermione sighed, wishing it were possible.

"At least we can say that one good thing has come out of all this."

Hermione kicked off the ground, and let the sensation of swooping bubble through her middle. The rush of the air past her face felt good in the heat of the day and she closed her eyes allowing herself to feel carefree if only for a moment.

"And what is that?" Harry asked, swinging higher.

"At least it's looking more and more unlikely that he'll be elected as Minister of Magic," she smiled wryly. "Can you imagine? Malfoy as our head of state?"

Harry barked out a laugh reminiscent of Sirius. "That will be the day. No," he continued. "After tomorrow's articles, he'll have a hard time keeping the job he has now." Hermione nodded appreciatively. "Though," Harry said in afterthought. "I don't mind that he works in France."

"He's best out of politics all together."

Harry nodded his agreement. They sat there swinging for some time. Hermione took note of the light breeze shifting the park's trees around and the mechanical creek of the swing's structure. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the present, and banishing any thoughts of what the last two days had seen unfold. She clutched her wand, holding it at the same time as she gripped the linked chain of the swing she on which she was sitting. She vowed in that moment never to let it leave her side. Her wand was her power, she couldn't forget that. And the next time she saw Draco Malfoy, he wasn't going to know what hit him.

"Anyway, Hermione," Harry said after they had been left to their respective thoughts for quite a while. "I wouldn't worry so much. I have a backup plan of sorts. Just in case."

Hermione made a sound halfway between a laugh and a cry. Her throat felt hot. She was supposed to be the one with all the plans.

"_You do_?"

Harry stopped swinging, and Hermione followed him, dragging her feet in the sand under the swing set until she came to a twisting halt. The unease in her gut resurfaced as soon as the momentum ended. She looked up squinting against the bright June sunlight.

"Half the purebloods I work with have been betrothed since they were two years old," Harry said. "Despite the fact that Malfoy is an arse, and known to be a sadistic little shit to boot...he's worth quite a bit of money." Harry spoke as though it were distasteful, "And his family is quite old. At least on his mother's side. I remember seeing the tapestry at number twelve, Grimmauld Place. I wouldn't doubt that whoever he's engaged to would be more than willing to help get her title back as the future Mrs. Malfoy."

Hermione groaned. This was his plan?

"It's Astoria Greengrass," she said, wishing she could put a face to the name.

Harry looked bewildered. "Any relation to…Daphne in our year? Slytherin?" asked Harry, trying to place the name.

"Her younger sister."

"I've never met her," Harry admitted, frowning.

"Nor have I."

She was disappointed.

"Why do you sound disappointed?" Harry questioned, picking up on her deflated look. "This could really work. Daphne was a bit of a…" he ran his hands through his hair, tussling it. "…well she was a bit unmemorable, wasn't she? But this Astoria could be something of a snake. The Greengrasses are purebloods, aren't they? If anyone could know how to get out of this, it would probably be them. I'm sure Astoria will be over the moon to think you'd help her reclaimed her right to popping out small ferrets."

His small attempt at humor was wasted on Hermione, who just sighed.

"Astoria's not going to put up a fight. That's the impression I got from Malfoy last night," Hermione lamented. "If she's anything like her sister… I wouldn't count on her to do much to contest this. Besides, Malfoy told me she was dating someone else. She might not even care."

Astoria was in fact a greater nuisance than Hermione had given her credit for, or could ever have predicted. For the second time in the same day, Draco was interrupted in his study as he perfected the final touches of his speech he was supposed to deliver to St. Mungo's benefactors the next week.

Under normal circumstances Astoria Greengrass was quite beautiful. She was tall and thin, her dark brown hair was almost black and hung strait down to her mid-back. She had abnormally large eyes which she enhanced with a fair bit of charcoal over and under her upper and lower lashes. She was fashion conscious and the picture of pureblood breeding, and yet, her unexpected arrival made Draco inwardly cringe. His face, however, remained collected.

"Tell me it's not true," she demanded, nearly throwing herself into Draco's study.

The vase that had shattered earlier that day and, thankfully, been repaired by the house elves, teetered precariously on its stand. Draco resolved to have it moved somewhere else. Perhaps he would install a sneakoscope in the place it vacated in order to know when people were going to interrupt his personal time and space. He idly wondered what it was about his person that made people think they were allowed to talk to him when he was working.

Draco looked up at her flashing eyes and snarling lips and gave an absentminded thought to how much prettier Hermione looked in the same state of ire. Astoria was all teeth and snarl, and her hair lacked the wild quality that had occupied an alarming amount of Draco's thoughts that day.

He hadn't wanted to speak to Astoria until later in the week, but his leg was cramping as it often did when he worked for long periods of time in a sitting position. There was nothing to be done about the pain. That seemed to be the consensus at St. Mungo's and the tree private Healers he had hired from abroad.

He stood then, stretching his legs and walking over to her. She immediately dropped her gaze, and placed two formal kisses on either of his cheeks.

He let her.

His hand found its way to the small of her back and he ushered her out of the door, leading her down the corridor. He hadn't spoken to her in a couple of months. The last time he saw her, she had been picking up Theodore Nott from a campaign meeting Draco had held at his home in mid April. In fact, Draco knew Theodore Nott quite a bit better than the woman he was supposed to have married.

"Please tell me it's not true," she asked again when the silence stretched to uncomfortable levels. How Theo could stand her was really a testament to the man's patience.

"It's not true," he deadpanned, ushering her down the corridor.

Astoria nodded, as if that was the only obvious answer, "Oh, thank Merlin."

"Why are you here, Astoria?"

He had a guess.

"I heard you'd gotten married," she almost whispered, her confidence waning as he failed to respond.

For a second all that could be heard was their mingled footsteps on the corridor floors. Draco allowed the silence to grow between them, and felt her tremble beneath the flat of his palm on her back. As they walked, she kept glancing up at him trying to catch his gaze, but he kept both his jaw set and his eyes forwards. She seemed to wilt.

"Draco?"

"You must have had lunch with Pansy," Draco told her, leading her around another bend.

"Flint?" Astoria asked. "No, I was supposed to meet up with Gabrielle Delacour around noon. She said there had been an incident at the Granger-Weasley wedding and stood me up. To go to Harry Potter's of all places. Did you know they were related by marriage?"

The information could not have interested Draco less.

"Tell me, Astoria." he said softly. "Has Theodor been treating you kindly?"

She stopped walking in an instant and looked up at him expectantly.

"Are you ready?" She hedged, excitement coating her voice.

"I didn't-"

"Oh, Draco…" she gushed, "My mother will be so happy. I'll speak to Theo right away of course. Would you like me to ditch him today?" She was speaking to herself at that point, "Of course you would. I…I'll write him an owl-"

Draco shushed her with a wave of his hand. He pivoted and stared into her eyes, never changing the expression of his face or the intensity of his gaze. She shifted and flushed, ducking her head away from him and smiling coyly as though she had caught something rather spectacular and did not want to take the credit.

"You misunderstand me," said Draco in a plain voice. "I've heard that you are quite happy with Theodore."

Her nod was hesitant, confused.

"As happy as I can be before you're ready," she hedged. "I've _been_ waiting for you."

"But he makes you happy," he urged. "He pleases you."

She blushed prettily.

"Well..." Astoria said, flustered. "If I didn't fancy him I wouldn't have dated him for the past couple of years, would I? But...don't misunderstand me Draco," she rushed on. "If you asked me to break it off with him yesterday, I would ha-"

"I know," Draco assured. "I know." He turned away from her and faced the portrait on the wall of his grandfather Abraxas who gave him a curious smirk, and then pretended to be sleeping in his embroidered green chair. "But believe me when I say it will be the best for both of us that we break off our little arrangement."

Draco could hear Astoria suck in a breath behind him.

"What do you mean?" Her voice was pinched.

"Well," Draco informed her plainly. "You were correct when you thought I was already married."

"I don't understand."

He sighed, "Really, Astoria. It's not that complicated of a concept-"

"I'm not thick," she snapped. "I just don't understand. Why didn't..." you tell anyone, she probably would have said. But words were failing the pureblooded witch.

"It happened rather suddenly," Draco admitted.

He turned around just in time to see her break into full blown hysterics. Her face became blotchy and bloated. Her arms flew wildly, and the most inhuman shriek tore from her pouty lips. It was revolting. Draco practically sneered at the sight of her.

"How could you! How could you do this to me!" She wined at the top of her voice.

Draco was unmoved. "I was going to tell you-"

"It was supposed to be me! It was always supposed to be me! I've sacrificed for you! I've known since I was born that I was going to be a Malfoy..." she went on. It was embarrassing really. Draco moved towards her and took each of her arms in his large hands, shaking her gently to get the sounds to stop.

He in no way regretted his decision to marry Hermione the night before, in fact, as he looked into the tantrum-ing face of his ex-betrothed, it was seeming like a better and better idea.

"Great Salazar, Astoria." He'd heard Banshees with more appealing screams. "Have a little decorum."

Her breathing was coming out in terrible pants and she ripped herself away from him. "We had an arrangement, Draco!"

Draco smirked, "Did we now?"

"You're a bastard," she told him. "I've spent my life learning how to handle you. How to satisfy you! How to be the wife you deserve! It's in my blood! What did your father say about this?" she demanded. "He already took half my dowry-"

"The money will be returned to you as soon as you leave," Draco assured with a roll of his eyes. "I'm not in the habit of bickering over pocket change."

"And Pansy," Astoria continued cruelly. "That pug-faced bitch wouldn't know what to do with a man like you. Congratulations on being husband number four, Draco-"

He laughed.

"I've known Pansy a long time," he said thoughtfully. "And the only time I've even come close to kissing her was at the Yule Ball in our fourth year."

"But you said Pansy-"

"I married…" He paused mauling over the wording of it. It would be the first time he'd said the words out loud. "I married Hermione Granger last night."

The portraits along either side of the corridor started whispering fiercely. Draco ignored them. If they knew what was good for them, they would keep quiet.

Astoria, alternately, seemed incapable of speech. Draco really did prefer her that way.

And then she did the unthinkable, she began to yowl. An unholy sound, petulant and spoiled, crawled from her lungs with aggressive vigor. It was akin to hearing the Hogwarts Express pull into the station. Every second or third breath a piercing sound would come from her mouth and she looked about ready to prostrate herself on the ground and kick and pound her fists until he relented. Draco frowned, not having planned for a complete meltdown that afternoon.

"For Merlin's sake, Astoria." He muttered pinching the bridge of his nose. "Would it be so terrible to keep it on with Theo? The poor bastard worships you."

"I don't want him!" She bellowed unattractively. "I was supposed to get you! I was taught how to handle you!"

Draco rolled his eyes, "Hermione's my wife now, there's nothing to be done." She made to interrupt him but he continued. "The ceremony's been preformed."

"There are ways around it," Astoria pouted.

"Don't pout."

"I can reverse it-"

"No."

"But I can _reverse_ the marri-"

"I don't want you to," Draco said, gritting his teeth.

"You don't know what you want," Astoria fumed.

"Don't try me, Astoria. You haven't a clue what I'm capable of."

"I hope you don't think I'll take this lying down?" She asserted dangerously.

"You can take it in any position that is most comfortable for you," he told her, and then gave her a tight smile.

It really hadn't been a pleasure seeing her that afternoon.

"Dra-"

"I'm sure you can see yourself out," He continued around her voice. "I have a few more things to look over and then I have to collect Hermione from wherever she's run off to." He paused and finished, "You understand."

Admittedly, Astoria looked very far from understanding. She was snarling widely and her fists were clenched at her sides. But, in what seemed to be a gigantic effort to school her features, she took a breath and pushed out a cordial grimacing smile. She stepped back towards him and kissed each of his cheeks in adieu, a cruel pinched look adorning her usually beautiful features.

"Give my regards to your mudblood wife," she bit out. "But don't get too attached, Draco. Spells backfire, tree's fall, accidents happen all the time. And when she-"

"Don't threaten her, Astoria." Draco's voice had gotten impossibly smooth, like honey, and he watched Astoria push through obvious fear. It was never a good sign when Draco's voice took on such a lilting quality.

"You shouldn't have made an enemy of me," she bit at him bravely. "Your precious mudblood doesn't stand a-"

"You _won't_ touch her."

Their entire dynamic changed in an instant. His grip tightened around the small of her back and using the weight of his body, he pushed her against the far wall. Her breath came out of her in a gasp and she turned her head to avoid her face impacting one of the portraits. The picture of the man in question, ran out of his frame and into that of the neighboring painting, hurling abuses at the pair. Draco flicked his wand and all was silent.

He pushed himself into the curve of her ass and used the hand that wasn't holding her to the wall to gather the fabric of her robes. It inched higher and higher, from the floor, over her shapely legs and then revealing the delicate pink lace of her panties. She tried to move away from him as the air from the hallway hit the skin that had just been covered.

"I wonder," Draco said in her ear. "What Theo would think of you if he saw you _now_." His hand slid across her ass, around its contour and between her thighs. She whimpered. "Would he leave you to me willingly?" Taking two fingers he plunged into her dry passage and held her as she bucked. He clenched his jaw and pressed his hardening length into her wild frame. "Is this what you wanted?"

"Don't..." Astoria begged. "Don't..."

"I thought you said you could handle me," Draco accused. He leaned his body against her and in so doing freed the hand that was keeping her against the wall. He let it fall to the waist of his pants and undid the button unhurriedly. "I thought you said you could satisfy me."

"Not like this," pleaded Astoria, petrified.

"No?" asked Draco. He pushed his fingers deeper into her, reaching a point where he encountered resistance. She cried out. "I'm disappointed, Astoria."

He made to take her, removing his fingers from within her and positioning his cock with calculated control. Using his legs, he kicked hers out in order to get better leverage over her center. Astoria turned her head past the point of comfort, trying to face him, trying to see into his eyes. Her slender arms were pinned in front of her, useless between her body and the portrait. He let the tip push its way into her channel. Her body rejected the invasion and she screamed out.

"Lucius!"

Draco laughed. It was hard, bitter, and lacking any point of humor.

"Do you really think my father will help you now?"

"Lucius!" She cried out again. And then sobbing to Draco, twisting within his grasp, trying to force the part of his member from within her, she confessed, "I'm pure. Please, I'm pure. I'm untouched."

Draco disregarded her. "You've been with Theo-"

"No," she pleaded. "No, it's…for you. It's for y-you."

Draco frowned leaning into her, she sobbed harder. She had felt tighter than he anticipated. "Were you – listen!" he jostled when she started to slip from his grasp and presumably into a feint. She snapped out of it with a whimper. "Were you saving yourself for me?"

She nodded frantically. "Yes," she wept, nodding into the wall. "M-my parents told me...s'part...of the arrangem-ment, pl..please, Draco. I've never...I..."

He leaned away from her as if to remove himself, and her body relaxed, relieved that the pain and humiliation was going to end. He moved back a little more and her arms were freed enough to come up to her face and clutch it in attempts to comfort herself even if the respite was minimal. His hand came up and threaded through her deep brown hair. She leaned into his hand, savoring any comfort she could despite his continued intrusion inside her body.

Without warning he slammed fully into her. The hand that had been in her hair moments before had slipped over her mouth and she howled around his fingers.

"I appreciate the gift," he breathed.

He pulled out and looked down to see the evidence of her virginity still upon him with some satisfaction. Astoria slid to the ground as soon as he let her go. He refastened the buttons of his pants, and readjusted his cloak around himself to hide the state of his arousal. It was getting late, and now was as good a time as any to find out what Hermione had spent her day accomplishing. Nothing, he assumed. He brushed a hand through his silver-blond hair, soothing it from his momentary exertion.

Lucius Malfoy limped around the corner of the corridor as fast as he could, the serpent cane he had carried in previous years was being used as a walking aid, as he was perceptibly still week from their encounter that morning. They made eye contact, father and son, silver on silver, before Lucius looked away and down to Astoria's huddled form on the floor. The skirts of her robes were revealingly high, and her cries were deep in her chest.

"What have you done?" Lucius asked of his progeny.

Draco said nothing to him, but sneered and turned towards the woman he had just touched in the most intimate way. He walked over to her face and with the delicacy and precision of a dancer, lifted her face to look up into his with the toe of his shoe.

"I'll give your regards to my mudblood wife."

Lucius limped towards them, coming to the pureblood witch's aid. Astoria took her head off of Draco's foot and spat at it. Draco wiped the spittle on the front of her robes, uncaring. He took out his wand and released the portraits, the only witnesses, of his silencing charm. They erupted in yells, cries, and some distant cheers, but Draco paid them no mind. He walked down the hall, determined to disapparate from the ballroom on the floor below to find his wife, and left in a cacophony of sound.

* * *

_Gah! Another chapter done! Two less-than-con lemons in two chapters? I promise Draco doesn't resort to noncon for everything. Hopefully he can be redeemed in your eyes! Everyone has their reasons right? Will Hermione find out? Will Astoria tell anyone? Is Draco really as invincible as he thinks he is? Too dark? Fluff is coming...at some point down the line (and I won't tell you how far!) Let me know what you think!  
_

_I'm thinking of an every other (around) Tuesday posting schedule. Barring writer's block and internet problems, that will hopefully happen. It might go to every third week at some point (like when school starts back up again in late August). I can't exactly tell my Professors to give me less HW so I can write ff. Wish I could!_

_I have a pretty decent idea of where the story is going. I'm thinking around twenty-one chapters right now (and my chapters are looong!). It could be more later. We'll see._

_Again, thank you for reviewing! It really does make me write faster…so review! ;)_

_xoxoxo -Writethesun  
_


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